See You Around
by abc79-de
Summary: Trory. 'Over the last few months, the bond they had formed, constantly cushioning them from the world and its petty problems, swallowed the drama that marked their initial courtship.' COMPLETE.
1. Brokers and Bimbos

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

She played with the edge of the linen napkin that was laid out neatly in her lap. No one would know to look at her, the polished make-up and perfectly done hair, her attentive eyes and best little black dress; but she was bored out of her well-educated mind. She'd given up on picking at her chicken marsala long ago, finished off her fair share of the red wine over a half hour ago, and this guy was still rambling on about how his 401K plan wasn't—well, okay so she hadn't been listening, but she distinctly remembered him saying something about a 401K at some point.

Her mind wandered to trying to figure out exactly when she had gotten to the age that the men she was set up with actually rambled about such boring topics. At least a few years ago, the endless string of men had rambled on about keg parties and things that made her still feel young and like she had years to find Mr. Right. She made a mental note to call her mother as soon as she could beg off from this hellhole of a date. It had been Lorelai that had set her up on the most current debacle. This man, this boring eternal bachelor with a receding hair line and no clue as to why talking about his retirement plan wasn't of any interest to her, was the nephew of a neighbor of someone that had stayed at the Dragonfly last month. She had her mother, grandmother, Sookie and even Paris looking high and low for men to set her up with. Not to mention Ms. Patty who generally only looked low. When Paris had started in on it, she felt a twinge of self-pity. She was an attractive, successful 27-year-old reporter. She lived in New York City, the hub of the single overachievers. Surely there was one man on this island that she would hit it off with. She was beginning to rethink that notion, as this particular specimen didn't even bother to stop talking to chew as he ripped off a piece of breadstick with his teeth. She winced and brought her fingertips up to rub her temples.

Her thoughts quickly went from trying to think of polite excuses for her sudden need to leave the hip new restaurant alone to thinking that climbing out the bathroom window probably wouldn't be that harrowing. She glanced down at her new stiletto pumps that she'd rewarded herself with after her last promotion and sighed.

He was coming back from the bathroom, wondering how much of the tiny salad with no dressing his date would actually choke down before rushing off to the bathroom. She was blonde, she looked like she weighed about ten pounds and she was going to put out after he paid thirty dollars so she could pick at four leaves of lettuce. Trying to figure out which of the small discrepancies between these women that rotated through his life would differ tonight almost kept him interested enough to listen to them talk about why they're never going back to the hottest new salon ever again because of the debauchery they'd made of her French tips.

On his leisurely stroll back to his table, his unusually good hearing picked up a familiar voice. He slowed down to catch a few more words, almost colliding with a waiter with a tray full of entrees.

"No, I didn't realize that the sci-fi convention would actually be in town next weekend," came her curt reply. She sounded horrified, and whomever she was talking to obviously didn't know her very well.

When the waiter halted suddenly next to him, he leaned way back in order to miss the tray and turned back towards his table and his waiting date. She was checking her teeth in her knife, and he took a deep breath before sitting down opposite her and giving his best 'I really need to get laid tonight' smile.

She heard a loud squeal, and looked up from her personal pain to see where it had come from. Half of the restaurant had turned; suddenly the focus of the dining room was on the man in the Armani suit on his bended knee holding out the largest diamond she'd ever seen. It had to be several carats, and it was a brilliant yellow color. The woman that he extended his hand out to had covered her mouth with both hands after her squeal and the room erupted into applause when she nodded in affirmation. Rory rolled her eyes, tired of seeing this night after night, and even more tired of this man's grating voice yapping at her hour after hour. Where their waiter could be with the check was beyond her. Her eyes glanced down at her delicate watch, the perfect accessory, something this man didn't deserve. He didn't even deserve her in her sweats and paint splattered in her hair that was becoming the norm for her while not at work as her current undertaking was making her living space her own. She was repainting her apartment in warm, homey colors, ridding the place of plain, stark whites.

She gave one more glance to the 'happy couple', wondering how long they'd be married before she spent his entire fortune and moved on to the newest hotshot on Wall Street. There were plenty of hotshots here tonight, and plenty of would-be trophy wives joining them. As a matter of fact, just to the right of the squealer was the perfect example. The woman was picking at a sparse looking salad, the kind that made you want to run out and chew on some bark in order to get some flavor and fulfillment. She looked as devoid of character as her caloric intake. The man sitting across from her—he looked familiar. He was dressed nicer than most of the men here—definitely more attractive than the broker in what she swore was a Nehru jacket sitting across from her at her own table. This particular man was what the New York elite had deemed a metrosexual—he definitely spent some time making himself look that good. He was tanned, blonde and well groomed. He smirked at the no doubt inane comment his date was making and she knew she had to be correct about his identity. No one else could smirk that well, and make indifference look, well, that sexy.

He felt eyes on him, which was odd, seeing how it hadn't been his date that had let out a squeal that had almost convinced him they were adjacent to a barnyard. He glanced quickly around the room to find the source of the feeling that was causing the fine hairs on the nape of his neck to stand. He knew it wasn't his sure thing of a date. She was too busy complaining that her favorite lipstick had been discontinued for the fall season and she was going to have to get a whole new wardrobe to work with any of the new colors she was forced into buying. He gave a smirk; trying to appear just interested enough to get him home with her in another half an hour. He knew she wouldn't touch any dessert he ordered and he'd blown enough money on her.

Then he saw her. The only other person that looked more bored than he was feeling. The voice he'd heard earlier had in fact belonged to her, as unlikely as it had seemed at the time. She looked like at any moment she might lurch across the table to slit her escort's throat with a butter knife her index finger was tracing absently. He noticed her original gaze was on him, but she looked quickly away when he found her staring at him. He gave another smirk, seemingly in response to the comment the blonde mannequin across from him made that he failed to attend to. The stunning brunette across the dining room glanced back towards him to see the smirk and he watched as realization washed over her exquisite features. Immediately his thoughts leaped from how to get an itch scratched to how to get a smile to form on the full lips of the most beautiful woman in the room.

His eyes went from his date to hers, and then she watched as his eyebrow cocked as if to ask her what in hell they were seriously doing in this restaurant with these people. She bit back a smile, glancing back at her own date who was now using his finger nails to dig into his teeth. Disgusted, she grimaced and gave into the absurdity that was this evening. She looked back to the blonde god across the dining room and offered a shrug and small smile as if to take no blame in how she ended up with this man.

Now the game was on.

AN: Back with another Trory. I had this idea months ago, but I got all caught up in the Summer Trory exchanges. . . So review if you like it, encourage me, people! Please? I do so appreciate it.


	2. Purple Mohawks and Ace Bandages

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

AN: Whoa. Okay, seriously, I thought that I might get a couple of reviews, but my goodness! You guys ROCK! Talk about encouragement. I hope you continue to enjoy as much as you did the first chapter. As for the switching, I had separations between the two's viewpoints, but I couldn't get to upload it write, even after I manually changed it, it would flip back. Anyone who can tell me how to fix this, I appreciate help! Thanks again! –Amy

The dimly lit club made it difficult to make out which 'cute guy with a purple Mohawk' she was supposed to be meeting. Most the guys had Mohawks, and most of the people in here were heavily pierced and tattooed. Why she let her best friend Lane talk her into this was beyond her. Lane was off in Europe touring, but had called wanting to talk about how this guy had filled in for Brian when he had an allergic reaction to some shrimp he accidentally ate in a taco before a show in Philadelphia a few months back. The discussion as to why shrimp was IN a taco went on for some time before Lane rounded the conversation back to the blind date she had lined up for her friend. She said he was incredibly talented, lived in New York City, and to expect his call. Knowing she couldn't get out of it, she put on her favorite short denim miniskirt, layered a couple of funky tank tops and pulled on a pair of combat boots before hurrying off to catch a cab and meet Brendan. Lane had assured her that the purple Mohawk was something she'd forget within milliseconds of seeing him—evidently Lane deemed him to be that attractive. On her cab ride, she let the brief thought of her last date float through her mind—of the familiar face she saw and wondered how he begged off from his date. The thought made her smile. She herself had finally excused herself to the bathroom and snuck out the entrance after he ordered dessert.

She had finally reached the table, and extended her hand to greet the guy wearing a shirt with Lane's band's logo on it, figuring he must be Brendan. He pulled her by the outstretched arm, heading up to rush the stage before a hello could be uttered. He was evidently 'really into this bitchin' band'. 'Who says bitchin'?' she thought to herself, unable to take her eyes off of his bright purple hair as she allowed herself to be drawn into the small cluster of fans. The darkness caused it to be impossible to make out his eye color, but as the band began to play, bright lights flew around the room, illuminating his too-bright plum head. He was moving too much to get a good look at him anyhow, thrashing around to the noise that was filling the club.

She grimaced at the music as it blared on with an unintelligible man who insisted on screaming into the microphone. And perhaps if he had been screaming actual words, she would understand. But he was just wailing at the top of his lungs as the band rocked out. After the first 'song', she made a motion to imply she was going to get a drink of water, leaving him to jump up and down in the small crowd of interested onlookers near the stage.

At the back of the club, she found the bar, and leaned over the counter a bit to yell, "WATER!" at the bartender. He gave her a strange look, but slid a glass of clear fluid in front of her. Not really caring if it were water or vodka at this juncture, she took the glass and brought it up to her lips.

"AREN'T THEY GREAT?" came a bubbly voice next to her. She glanced over to her right to see a blonde, eyeballed to be about 22, wearing skin tight leather pants and the smallest top Rory had ever seen. It looked like an Ace bandage wrapped around her too ample chest.

Rory gave her a bewildered look, and sort of a half nod before turning around to see where her date was. He was still jumping up and down to the awful music, and she wondered if he'd really notice if she just left. She felt bad, knowing Lane had the best of intentions, and she hadn't really given him a chance yet. She wasn't so petty as to judge this guy on his appearance. Of which she hadn't really gotten a good look at. Lane swore you could get lost in his eyes, and she would have dated him herself if it weren't for Dave.

Turning back to the bar, she looked around the other patrons of the club. The bubbly girl was waving towards the bathroom, Rory hoped trying to flag down her date. This definitely wasn't her sort of scene. She longed for the next night, when she planned to hole up in her favorite little coffee shop with her laptop and her thoughts. It was too loud in here to think, not that the thoughts she would have in here would be worth sharing with others.

Tristan came out of the bathroom, and rejoined his date as she headed out to the dance floor. She'd rambled on about how this band was the best thing she'd ever seen in her life. He liked loud music, especially in his car on long trips to keep him awake. Basically he would listen to most any genre of music. This however was already making him rethink his usual acceptance of all music. He wondered if this could actually be considered music. He had to admit he was only here because she was hot, and when he met her in the office of his new client, she seemed to be articulate enough. Lately he was tiring of being bored to tears by the same tedious conversation about the girl's shoes and how she can't eat bread today because she had a half a muffin last Monday. But conversation wasn't what was driving him at this point. It was too loud and her top was too small. He pulled her close up against him as they swayed to the beat, his leg moving between hers so he could grind up into her more effectively as he attempted to will the headache that was forming behind his right eye to go away.

She seemed to be more into the music than him, and he kept trying to move in front of her to get her attention. His efforts were proving futile, as she kept moving so she could see the band more clearly. Not that it was possible to see much in this club. He felt out of place, a rare feeling for him, as he was lacking metal and ink in his person and his clothes were a little too nice comparatively. He did have a tattoo, but it was usually covered and didn't cover more than 20% of his body. This outing was strictly for this girl, in hopes of getting back to her place at the end of the night. As she moved away from him yet again, he began to see that just wasn't in the cards with this girl tonight.

Brendan came up next to her, asking for whatever she was having from the bartender. He took a sip of the drink, and made a strange face at her when he realized it was water. He made some lame joke about he hoped hers was at least spiked and she gave a fake smile, waiting for some sign of human life to come from this man. He asked if she wanted to go back up to the front, putting his arm around her as he rested on the bar, and she told him in her most polite way that she was tired after a long week and would rather sit down.

He was off in a flash, back to worship at the most strangest of alters, and she took her water as she headed back to the table that he had been waiting for her at earlier. How he restrained himself to wait for her, she would never be able to figure out. Not that she wanted to spend one more second of her life with him in order to do so. She'd decided to finish her water and see if he would come back—then she was officially able to leave in good conscience. She watched the crowd, almost worth a wasted evening in the entertainment value. She convinced herself to think of it as an off-Broadway production of some bad punk musical. 'Tales of a Wailer', it could be called, she decided.

Tristan was offended at this point. He'd taken every chance to attempt to keep this girl's attention—this girl named. . . okay, so he couldn't remember. He thought it sounded something like the name of an alcohol. Sherry? No. Shirley? That didn't seem to fit at all. Oh well, she was currently mashed up against the stage, mostly dancing with some freak with a purple Mohawk. Shaking his head at the situation, he moved off to the side and found an empty table to slump down at. He would have normally felt bad leaving her stranded, but this wasn't Hartford where cabs were harder to come by. She could walk outside and have her pick of ways home, if she didn't become a groupie on the spot. He looked at the crowd of what he deemed freaks, their strange haircuts and stranger obsessions with scarring their bodies permanently. He shifted slightly in his seat to see if the night was worth salvaging with anyone else in the club, still unable to believe that this Friday night was completely unsalvageable. His positive attitude was rewarded when his eyes landed on a pair of legs that made him have to shift in his seat again, but not for a better view. His blue eyes continued their journey up her well-toned body, enjoying the best looking woman he'd seen in a long time. He reached her face and let the surprise and irony wash over him as a smirk spread across his lips.

She downed the rest of her water and felt relief set in when she saw Mohawk boy with Ace Bandage girl. They were almost obscenely dancing, the only two people that truly seemed to be enjoying this band. Actually, they were almost too vigorously enjoying this noise. She wondered what came of the girl's date, and gave one more look around as she stretched her legs, weighed down by her combat boots. She felt someone watching her, and her eyes met up with her onlooker. She couldn't imagine him in a place like this, but here he sat, alone without even a drink to keep him company. She bit her lip, and cocked her head at him, flabbergasted beyond words, beginning to think she was imagining him. He was like a mirage, an image of the type of person she would normally surround herself with as she found herself on a string of the worst blind dates, all picked from the 7th circle of hell. She'd only agreed to tonight because of Lane's insistence that his guy was worth the trouble. She made a mental note to have Lane put through a psych screening next time she was in the States.

She looked amazing, though a little confused. He could only imagine what she was doing here—he couldn't really give a rational excuse as to why he was there. He'd wanted to talk to her last week at the restaurant, but she had fled before he could get away from his date. He had finally told the ditz he was with that he was tired and put her in a cab before flagging one down for himself and retiring home to think of her in that plaid skirt she had worn when he had once known her. He now winked, causing her to smile. She had finished her drink, and those long legs now stretched, she anchored her feet to push her chair back as she stood up. He was hopeful; sure she was coming over to make his bust of an evening a turning point in his life. Instead, she gave a small wave and disappeared from view yet again, out into the relative quiet of the city night. Bowing his head, he laughed to himself before standing. The last thing he saw was his date being pulled up on stage as he exited onto the street, his ears ringing.

And the game continued.


	3. Brian and Heather

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

AN: Okay, wow, you guys with the opinions! I love it, I really do. I promise, they will interact. This won't be the longest of stories, probably, and they will interact. As for whoever requested two chapters at once, well, I only have two hands, one mind, and no time. But a nice thought, I'll grant you. Anyhow, here's the next installment, and I hope it satisfies.

He couldn't believe this was going well. Even if it was the first ten minutes of the date, usually too early to tell; though he liked to think his senses were fairly keen by now as to how these things would turn out. His mother had actually set him up on a date, which bothered him at first. He was never set up on dates. Tristan Dugrey on a blind date was like a millionaire on food stamps. Granted, it had been over a month since his last date, but he'd been busy with work. When his mother called to see how he was, she was concerned that he wasn't focusing enough attention on looking for someone to help further the family line. She hadn't given him much choice in meeting Heather, whose name she drilled into his brain, going on and on about how her parents were very well known in all the social circles throughout the Northeast, and how she herself had gone to summer camp every year with her mother. To say the least, he was not excited to be meeting this woman. He'd spent every summer with this type of girl—privileged, pampered and uninteresting. They were interchangeable, but his mother had been so persistent about this girl. When he called her to make plans, she suggested a sushi bar that he'd heard good things about. At least she was adventurous in her eating habits. That had to bode well, he decided and they made definite plans.

Heather was someone he probably would have hit on if he'd run into her while going about his daily routine. She was well groomed as he expected, she had actual opinions and he found himself enjoying the conversation they were having while they waited for their food to be made in front of them. It was rare that he could get a girl to a sushi bar, but to enjoy her topics of conversation more than the show of the preparations was downright next to impossible to imagine.

Rory ran her hand through her hair for the fifteenth time, waiting for Brian to pick her up for their date. She'd met him three days ago, while on assignment. He was waiting to interview the same person she was, but for a news magazine he worked for. They got to talking and he waited for her to finish her interview, hanging around just to ask for her number. She gladly obliged, thrilled to be able to announce to her family and friends that she could in fact get her own dates. Not to mention someone who was educated, attractive and someone she could talk about different aspects of work with. At long last, she heard the door buzz and grabbed her purse to meet him downstairs.

She enjoyed the atmosphere of the restaurant immediately. She'd had sushi before, but had never been to a sushi bar. Brian raved about the place, he'd known about it forever and said it was the best in the city. He gave his name at the front, and they were immediately taken to be seated. Rory was happy, glad for once to be on a good date. He was dressed nicely, smelled incredible and seemed genuinely cool to be around.

"Heather?" came his incredulous voice, and Rory's head snapped up to see Brian moving away from the hostess who was leading them. He moved over to another table, where a blonde was standing and rushing towards him. A sense of dread came over Rory, though she wasn't sure why. It just seemed like an omen to see some other woman rushing into this guy's arms like that. And hanging onto him like a suction cup clings to glass. 'Geez, get a room,' came her thought as a few moments passed and the two continued to hug past the appropriate length of time.

When they finally pulled back, she smiled brightly at him, and Rory coughed.

"Oh, Heather, this is Rory."

"Nice to meet you. You two should join us!" came her response as she turned excitedly back to Rory's date. Rory felt all excitement that she'd allowed to build up inside of her dwindle down to nothing. She numbly followed as he accepted, and glaring as the hostess rearranged the table so she and Brian could sit next to Heather and the poor sap she'd come with. She looked at the empty chair, wondering where her date was, as it would be odd to come to a sushi bar alone. They had just been seated when Heather began introductions again as the other man rejoined them.

"Brian, Rory, this is Tristan. He's the son of one of my mother's friends."

He couldn't believe his eyes or ears. So much was wrong with this picture. Not that he didn't enjoy the fact that Rory Gilmore was sitting at their table, but the fact that Heather and this Brian punk were chatting warmly and all but sitting on top of each other really pissed him off. Didn't she have the decency to respect who was buying her dinner? Not to mention the fact that she introduced him as the 'son of her mother's friend?' This girl had nerve. Couldn't she form the word 'date'?

Heather and Brian were busy explaining the fact that they had grown up together, their parents summering together every year in the Hamptons (where else, they joked) and hadn't seen one another since college. This sushi bar was one they used to come to all the time when they were visiting the city. At least, this was the information Rory would have heard if she hadn't been staring at Tristan so intently. She watched as he glared at his date, feeling probably the way she felt when he failed to mention to the attractive blonde that they were on a date, as was obviously what he'd been on until moments ago.

She noticed now that she was finally in closer proximity to him after all these years that he had definitely filled out. His shoulders were a bit broader, his jaw more defined and just as sexy as he had always been. He carried himself with confidence, and not just the cocky self-loving arrogance that he had in high school. This was more of a cool, austere confidence. The type that came only with age and experience. She'd seen him a couple of times over the last month, from across crowded rooms, and unable to fully appreciate the changes in his features until now.

He saw that she was checking him out, probably noting the differences that the years had brought to him. She was a detail freak; at least she had been years ago when he knew her. His 'date' was obviously reunited with a long lost love, and he knew it was a lost cause. His only consolation to losing out at this almost promising evening was the fact that he could sit near Rory and finally appreciate the fact that this woman had become more beautiful over time. He knew she was still attractive, he could see that on the chance sightings they'd had over the last month. Up close she was damn near breathtaking. She had always given him the impression she knew something she wasn't telling him, but now she seemed to exude elegance along with wisdom.

She was beginning to wonder how long they could sit there and not speak. Heather and Brian obviously had no problem ignoring them, and of course were oblivious to the fact that they badly needed to get a room, as they weren't the only two people in the restaurant. As their food was so grandiosely presented in front of them, Rory gave a smile his direction before expertly picking up her chopsticks and dipping her California roll into soy sauce. He watched as she maneuvered the utensils and enjoyed her first bite of food. He was impressed, as she seemed to thoroughly enjoy her food, and finally looked up as blush crept across her refined features.

"What?" she asked, looking back at him slightly embarrassed.

"Hello to you, too," he tilted his head, continuing to smile at her.


	4. Cabs and Swings

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

AN: ah. Okay, so they started talking, and I can't go back on that now, can I? Hehe. Sorry if you think I'm evil, but I really enjoy the wordless play that they seemed to have, even though they do have great verbal banter. They way people connect really can be seen, way before they speak. But you don't want to hear my thoughts on that, so I give you now another chapter. Keep reviewing, and I'll keep writing. It seems to be a good motivator.

Having seen her past date behavior, he knew that if he wanted to continue talking to her, he had better follow her when she excused herself to the restroom. They'd discussed their food, their jobs and took a brief stint through the college years. Both were fairly sure that Heather and Brian had no idea they'd known each other from years past as well. They'd been eating just twenty minutes, though it seemed almost longer as the constant reminder as to why they were both here was constantly between them, chatting loudly and happily.

He didn't bother to excuse himself from the table, as no one left cared if he was still enjoying his food or if his hair spontaneous caught fire. He noted that she had taken her purse and jacket, following suit and grabbing his jacket as he half jogged to the exit.

She stood outside the restaurant, looking down the street to assess the cab situation. She had no thoughts of what she left behind; her mind was obviously on to the comforts that home would provide just as soon as she could walk in her front door.

"You didn't seriously think you could leave me in there with that nightmare, did you?"

His voice almost startled her; she wasn't expecting him to follow her. Not that she blamed him for wanting to get out of there. She didn't turn to face him; instead, she continued her search for an empty cab as she gave her reply.

"What's the matter, you weren't enjoying your date?"

Her sarcasm obviously hadn't waned over the years. A cab came to a rather abrupt stop before her, responding to her outstretched hand, and she opened the door. He didn't miss a beat; he moved instantly and slid in next to her, much to her surprise. She began to give her address to the cabbie, but he was louder than she was. He gave a location and winked at her.

"So, you're hijacking my cab?"

"I'm taking us someplace we'll both enjoy."

"I'm not going home with you, Tristan."

"It's not my home."

"Where are we going?"

"Patience, patience," he instructed her, as she rolled her eyes and sat back against the seat.

"Why did you follow me? I was going to the bathroom."

"Ah, you forget, I've seen you get out of dates—I know your work," he leaned back and rested so his shoulder brushed hers.

Rory smiled, hanging her head a little. "Ah, so my secrets are out."

"Pretty much. That and you took your coat. Now, I don't know what all you ladies do in the bathroom, but I'm guessing a coat isn't needed."

"It's not very proper to discuss what ladies do in a bathroom."

"We're off topic, here. So, that date stealer was your escort for the evening?"

"Brian, yes. Though, he wasn't the date stealer. Your blonde friend coerced him to join you two."

"Hey, don't blame me, it was a setup," he said as his hands went up in defense.

He regretted giving her that information just as soon as it left his mouth. Her eyes lit up as if it was Christmas morning and she was five.

"Tristan Dugrey on a setup?"

"Rory," he warned.

"Who set you up? Oh, tell me it was your mother," she pleaded, clapping her hands together in glee.

"Look, I've been busy and she thought I wasn't dating enough lately. She was concerned."

"Oh. My. God." Her blue eyes danced as the information processed in her overworking brain.

"What?" he almost encouraged her to go on but crossed his arms over his chest.

"Nothing. But I can die happy now," came the reply through the giggles she wasn't trying to hide very well.

"You're horrible."

They sat in silence for a moment, him not wanting to talk and her trying to sort out the millions of thoughts that were flying through her mind, how best to continue torturing him about this. She looked over at him, obviously pouting just a bit, however manly he tried to look to hide it. His lips were pursed tightly, his arms crossed and staring off into the New York night. She was just about to open her mouth again when the cab pulled to a stop. Tristan handed over some cash and opened the door.

"We're at the park," she said in confusion.

"Yes, we are. Are you coming?"

"Uh, yeah," she said quickly, moving out of the cab. "Let me pay you for half the ride," she insisted.

He waved his hand at her, as if to dismiss her prior request. He continued to walk, moving slowly through the park. She fell into step next to him, enjoying the serene setting of the park at night. She'd never actually walked through the park at night, as it wasn't the safest thing for a single woman to do alone. She felt safe, now, roaming around the pathways with Tristan.

"Tell me something," she broke the silence.

"What?"

"Do you hate dating as much as I do?"

He gave a soft chuckle. His fingers ran though his blonde hair and he scrunched up his mouth as if preparing to trying to formulate the words.

"I wouldn't say I hate dating," he began.

"You never seem to have much luck when I've seen you."

"I've grown a bit tired of dating the same kind of girl, I must say."

"What? Tristan, the last few girls I've seen you have been vastly different! I will say they've all been blondes, but most guys have that particular problem," she rambled.

"Wait, wait. What problem is this?" he held up one hand to pause her rambling, as he demanded clarification.

"I'm just saying most guys stick to dating girls with the same color hair."

"That's not true. I'm an equal opportunity dater. You've just witnessed three dates."

"Then, pray tell, what is so similar about these women," she mocked him.

"No substance. Completely wrong for me. Even if I wanted to get them in bed, I'd rather be shot at than talk to them afterwards."

"Wow, Tristan, I'm impressed."

He looked sidelong at her, knowing full well she was making fun of him. He knew she had no room to talk; she was having just as much of a dry spell as he was.

"What's wrong with all the guys you keep dating?"

"What makes you think you've seen all the guys I've dated since that first night in the restaurant?" she tried to cover with an air of superiority, but he saw she was still no good at lying.

"You're playing with your hair."

"What? I am not--," she cut off as she realized her hand was twirling a few strands that fell over her shoulder. She released the locks and put her hand in her pocket. He smiled and nodded, as if for her to continue.

"Everyone in my life thinks I need to be dating more, and they keep setting me up. Well, except for Brian, I met him at work a few days ago."

"We're pretty pathetic, then huh?"

"I'm not pathetic, I enjoy being at home and reading a good book. And you're just looking for substance," she threw him a bone, so he wouldn't think she thought badly of him.

"Well, I'm sure I'd find more substance if I read a good book," he agreed.

She smiled at his joke, and noticed they'd reached a swing set. She grabbed his arm, and pulled him over to the structure. She sat in one of the swings and looked up at him expectantly.

"What?"

"Push me," she said as if it were to be obvious.

"Excuse me?"

"Swing, push," she explained, making hand movements to help describe the scene that normally took place on a playground. He gave her a look, but moved around behind her and grasped her by the hips. He drew her far back, and gave her a mighty push. She held on to the chains for support, not expecting him to give her such a powerful send off. She fell into the rhythm, the feeling of loss of gravity as she fell back to earth, the warmth of his hand on the small of her back alternatively with the cool night air rushing around her as she continued to swing.

"Tristan?"

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you bring me here?"

He was silent for a moment, and gave her another light push as he gave himself some time.

"I guess, I just figured it was strange running into you so many times and not really talking," he shrugged, though she couldn't see him.

"We talked in the restaurant."

"We made polite conversation in front of two people we don't know and now can't stand," he corrected.

"True. I'm glad you followed me."

He smiled at her words, and nodded. "Me too."

"Hey, help me stop, will you?" came her innocent request. He grabbed her by her waist again as she flew backwards against him, and he ran a bit forward, slowing her down as they moved backwards again, so she wouldn't have to scuff her nice shoes in the gravel below her. He released his grasp on her as she became still, and waited fro her to get up.

"I should probably be getting home," she said a bit regretfully, glancing down at her watch.

"Yeah, let's go get you a cab," he agreed.

"We should do this again," she said, looking at him as if the idea of hanging out with him had only just occurred to her.

"We should. Without the bad dates," he smirked.

"Definitely."

They walked back out to the street, and he hailed her a cab, smiling at her as she told him she was in the book, and to give her a call sometime. He wasn't sure what was going on now, but he was glad the chase seemed to be over and he knew he could see her again on purpose. He watched her slip into the cab, talk to the driver, and followed with his eyes as it disappeared into the sea of yellow before turning to get his own ride home.


	5. Harry and Sally

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

She slipped back into her front door, leaving her purse on the bench in the entryway, sliding her coat off her arms before hanging it on the coat rack near the entrance to the living room. She undressed as she moved towards her bedroom, ready to pull on her sweats by the time she reached where they lay out on her bed as if they were waiting to envelop her into their warmth. After she changed, she pulled on some wool socks to heat her freezing feet that had been tortured and exposed to the elements in her unforgiving, however ravishing high heels.

She had just grabbed her favorite fleece throw and a bottle of water, settling down on the couch when her phone rang. She cringed a little bit—if it was her date from this evening, well—he obviously didn't take a hint. On the other hand, it could be her mother, and she moved slightly towards the edge of the seat. Then it hit her—it was probably Paris. After all, this opportunity to practice her memory repression skills had been Paris' doing. She settled back, deciding to screen her calls tonight. She let it ring twice more before giving in and lurching over to the side table where her phone was nearly ringing off the hook.

She pressed the talk button, and took a deep breath before saying anything.

"Hello?" she ventured. She realized she needed caller ID. Her mother would say that New York was making her shut off from the world, turning her into the next Thoreau. She would joke back, saying she could only hope so.

"I knew it!" came the triumphant voice on the other end.

It wasn't a voice she dreaded hearing, but that tone wasn't helping her desire to respond.

"You knew what, exactly?" she sighed, pulling the blanket back over her legs, as she moved her knees up towards to her chest.

"It's 9:15pm."

"You know, if I needed the correct time, I could just call and ask for it. Do you have a point?"

"It's a Saturday."

She rolled her eyes. She knew where this was going, but she continued to drag it out, making the final accusation as specific as possible. For some reason, she enjoyed that method of arguing.

"So?"

"So, you're at home at 9:15 on a Saturday, alone," she could practically see his finger pointed at her.

"Tristan, you don't know I'm alone," she tried to mess with him.

"You want me to believe you invited Daddy Warbucks up?"

"Oh my God! You so didn't just say that!"

"Tell me I'm wrong," he countered.

"How do you even know I had a date tonight?"

"You aren't the only one that talks to Paris."

She sank further into her couch, wishing she'd made coffee when she got in. Water wasn't going to cut it during a conversation with Tristan. They'd been talking on the phone every so often over the last two weeks, and usually doing autopsies of their failed dates. She wanted to throttle Paris, not only for making her go out with this last guy, but even more so for telling Tristan about it. She was hoping this one would pass without having to talk to him about it.

"He wasn't that old," she managed lamely.

"Where did he take you?" his laugh almost stifled as probed her for the honest details.

"That isn't important," she thought of hanging up on him, but knew he'd call back until she picked up. Unplugging her phone isn't an option—she tried that once and Lorelai had been banging on her door at 2am in a panic as a result. And in her opinion, there was no more annoying sound than a ringing phone.

"Rory," he chided in a tone that he knew she would respond to. One that urged that if she didn't tell hers, he wouldn't tell his.

"Fine. He took me to the opera and then to a cigar bar."

Laughing filled her ear. She held the phone out from her head, shaking her hair free of the French twist it had been up in as he let out his obnoxious response to her last statement. She brought it back as she heard his entertainment had been slowed to a soft giggle.

"Are you finished now?"

"Almost. How old was this guy?"

"I don't know—probably around fifty."

"Why did you go out with him?"

"Paris didn't give me much of a choice! You know how she is."

"Yes, but I, unlike you, can say no to her," he pointed out.

"I can say no to her!"

More laughing. She really hated that he felt so open to make fun of her. They weren't that close, at least, that's what she told herself. Their phone conversations weren't something she would let herself think about, look forward to, or really talk about with anyone else.

"Right, so, tell me when you ever said no to her."

"When she kissed me," she offered, trying to punish him with mental images. She knew his testosterone filled mind would take over, quieting him for a while at least.

"The—WHAT?" he exclaimed a little too loudly, causing glares from others around him. He didn't care, the images flooding his brain were too much. Surely she was just messing with him.

"I thought you talk to Paris all the time! She didn't tell you about that?" she all but purred coyly.

"You've so got to be lying. Paris is way too repressed to ever--," he started, thinking about the events that would lead to the two girls ever kissing.

"Can we get back on topic here?" she asked, trying to sound bored.

"Hmm? Uh, sure. What were we talking about?"

"God, you are such a guy," she complained.

"Why is that sounding like a bad thing?" he returned to his charming tone, one that oozed out of his mouth slowly, almost seeping through the phone lines like molasses.

"So I had a crummy date with an old guy. Other than the old guy thing, this isn't a record. As a matter of fact, I was once back home by 7:45 once."

"Wow. That's just, sad. So, is Paris crossed off your list?"

"Yep. So far, the only one left on my list is Emily, and this girl named Kate that I work with," she informed him.

"Those are the only people you still trust to set you up on dates?" he was incredulous.

"Yep. Everyone else has scarred me."

"I'm hurt. I haven't scarred you!"

"Okay, first of all, I wouldn't go that far. But are you saying you want to set me up on a date?"

"Why not? I'll set you up and you can set me up," he offered.

"So, you're saying your date didn't go well?"

"Well, she's in the bathroom, and she's been in there for about twenty minutes, so I don't have much hope for it, no."

"You're still on your date?"

"So?"

She sat upright on the couch from her slumped down position, in shock of what he was telling her. She'd had bad dates—in fact most all of her dates have been miserable experiences. But never had she been on the phone for twenty minutes during one before.

"So? You're talking to me, and you're on a date!"

"So, how about it? You set me up and I'll set you up," he said again, ignoring her ramblings about how he was reaching new lows of dating hell.

"Tristan, I don't know. I think it's a bad idea."

"Oh, come on. We both hate dating, so we of all people would be perfect at weeding out the truly reprehensible options."

"No, no—haven't you ever seen When Harry Met Sally?"

A silence came over the phone, one that lasted long enough to make her wonder if his cell batteries had died.

"Tristan?"

"I'm sorry. I'm trying to figure out what that movie could have to do with us setting each other up with dates."

"Oh, come on—the main characters set each other up with their best friends, and their dates end up running out of the date together, leaving Harry and Sally alone on the city streets afterwards, all dejected and pitiful."

"Wait, didn't they end up married?"

"Yes, the best friends got married, and they had to watch--," she rambled, a little surprised that he'd actually seen the movie as it was considered a chick flick and Tristan didn't seem the chick flick type.

"No, no, no. I mean the main characters. Didn't they end up married?"

She stopped and heard what he was saying. "Oh, yeah, they did."

He smiled, leaning back into the wooden back of the chair as he rearranged his silverware unconsciously. "So, how about it?"

"Fine. But I'm not marrying you," she added, her brows now furrowed together as her confusion grew the more she tried to think about the tone of voice he used while they talked about the movie. He had this way of making her think about every comment, coding it for any double meanings; careful to make sure he can't take anything the wrong way.

He laughed softly again, "Fine. So, I'll talk to you later about this."

"Okay. Hey, Tristan?" she said, stopping him from hanging up quite yet.

"Yeah?"

"You've really seen When Harry Met Sally?" she asked curiously.

"Good night, Rory."

She heard the dial tone meet her ear, and a smile broke over her face as she hung up and placed the phone next to her on the end table.


	6. Decisions and Plans

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

Her efforts were exhaustive. She hadn't realized how many women she had gotten to know on a better than acquaintance scale since she moved to New York. She managed to call up most of them, under the guise of follow up thank yous for various past work engagements. She probed for marital status, hobbies, education, music preferences, even birth order. She was ruthless, turning away dozens of possible applicants that didn't even know they had applied for the job.

At long last, she'd narrowed it down to two. She went over both in her head, trying to picture each with Tristan. The first was Amelia, a writer for the Lifestyle section of the Times. She's originally from Virginia, loves to water-ski and graduated from the top of her class from Brown. Her favorite music is Big Band, which was the only thing that Rory was unsure about. The second choice was Sarah, from payroll. She was from Maine, graduated from Stanford and plays guitar in a band on the weekends. Granted, it was a country band. Rory wondered how many country music lovers lived in Maine, but held back from asking when she stopped by to ask a made-up question about her paycheck yesterday.

Both were brunettes, and both could carry a conversation, which was the most important thing in her mind—she had to break him out of his mindless blonde routine. She sighed, thinking it didn't really matter. Each was just as good—it's not like she was looking for the love of his life here. Just someone that he could talk to over dinner without wanting to pull his pretty blonde hair out.

'Amelia. Definitely Amelia,' she smiled, thinking to herself. A frown came over her face almost immediately, and she picked up her cell phone and hit a button. She waited, tapping her foot lightly under her desk. She mindlessly flipped through some papers that desperately needed her attention until he answered.

"Dugrey," his voice was hard and hurried, his work voice that let everyone know from the get go that he was a force to be reckoned with.

"Okay, so I have a million things to do, projects on my desk leaping out and calling my name, but am I doing them? No. No, I'm not, because I'm trying to figure out the perfect girl to send you out with, obsessing over which type of music would piss you off the least, and hoping that you'll still talk to me afterwards," she rambled at him, gesticulating with her free hand to the growing sea of paper around her.

"Uh, Rory, Rory, slow it down," he said, his tone much softer than his greeting, interrupting her stream of consciousness meltdown.

"No, no, I can't slow down. Do you know how hard it is to pick a girl for you?"

He smiled into the phone, despite the fact that all his associates could see into his glass-walled office. He noticed some on lookers and turned his chair around to face the window that overlooked Manhattan. He tapped his fingers along the armrest of his leather desk chair. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, and leaned back, ready to enjoy her own unique brand of freak out.

"Have I done something to you that I'm not aware of?"

"What? No, I just want you to enjoy your date," she said quickly, stopping her side-to-side movements in her swiveling chair. She moved her hand out, palming the computer mouse as she waited for his next comment.

"Well, that's very kind of you. Actually, I'm glad you called."

"Oh, yeah?" she smiled, catching her reflection in her computer screen made her do a double take. She had the goofiest smile plastered across her face. She sat up straighter and turned away from the monitor.

"Yeah. I was just thinking, since we were setting each other up, maybe it would be less awkward if we did a double date."

She swallowed. He wanted. . . did he really. . . Hmm.

"Rory?"

"Yeah? I'm here."

"So, what do you think?"

"Uh, yeah, that sounds fine. I mean, if we can get all the schedules to match up and everything."

"Well, the guy I'm setting you up with is pretty open in the evenings."

"Wait, you know the guy already?"

"You don't have a girl in mind?"

"Well, I have a few," she could hear his smirk, and didn't want to give him the satisfaction of winning. She had hoped he'd be having the same hard time she was.

"My, my, a few. I didn't know you cared."

"Tristan, I have it narrowed down. And I know which one I'm going to set you up with."

"Then the unintelligible rambling at the beginning of this call was. . .?"

She thought quickly, tapping her fingers on her desk, knowing each second she didn't answer was an actual eternity. She felt each moment pressing her down further into her chair, like an oppressive gravity.

"It was, I mean, it. . . Just never mind," she finally uttered, wanting to crawl under her desk. If anyone walked by, they'd see how red she'd turned, a bad habit she thought she had ridded herself of. She hadn't blushed since high school. Now she was blushing all the time. She hated that she had such little control over her emotions lately.

"Are you okay?" he asked now a little concerned. She usually at least made a point. Today she just seemed more wound up than usual. He'd been struck at how her mature sophistication laced with silliness has become turned around anytime they've talked about this dating venture. She gets flustered and starts sentences that she can't seem to finish. Very un-Rory like. Actually, very un-Gilmore like, from what he's heard of the family.

What he didn't know is that is exactly what was happening to her thoughts when she talked to him—her mind just seemed to stop, wind down and all that she can think of is the way his hands had felt so powerful around her waist that night in the park. Great, now she was concentrating on it actively.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

He decided to give her a break and help direct the conversation back to the task at hand. She likes direct, organized problem solving. He can do that, even though he always finds it more amusing to get off on tangents with her. Not only does it frustrate her, but it's also when she laughs the most. Her laugh is infectious and it makes his breastbone reverberate. Logically he knows that it has something to do with the pitch of her voice, but no one else has ever made him react in such involuntary ways before.

"So, what night is good for you?"

"Uh, this Saturday is fine, I guess."

"Right, and you're sure that--, I'm sorry, what did you say her name was?"

"Huh?"

"The girl that you're setting me up with, what did you say her name was?"

"Oh, I didn't. It's Amelia, though."

"Amelia, I like that."

She frowned a little, not enjoying the tone of his voice. Not that she didn't want him to have a good time, but he just seemed a little. . . too excited. She shook it off and focused on making plans.

"Who are you setting me up with?"

"Oh, a buddy of mine, Charlie," he replied calmly.

"So, Saturday?"

"Yeah. I was thinking of this Indian place in SoHo, it's--,"

"I love that place! What time?"

"You like Indian food?" He was surprised, as most women hated Indian food. Actually now that he thought about it, most women he dated hated any place that they couldn't get salad and bread. Then again, he knew Rory actually had an appetite.

"I love it. I have a hard time finding people to eat it with, but those who do are on a special list," she smiled.

"What kind of list?"

"My favorite people list," she said seriously.

"I'm on your favorite people list?"

"Well, you weren't, but you like Indian food, so I might be forced to make an addendum," she consented.

"I'll see you Saturday, Rory," he smiled to himself due to this new knowledge.

"Bye, Tristan."

She hung up the phone and picked up the most pressing assignment, moving her mouse a little to clear her screensaver so she could start typing. She wasn't sure exactly what Saturday would be like, but she was excited to find out how the night would unfold.

AN: Sorry it took me so long. Stress-filled weekend kept interrupting my best intentions to work on writing. Thanks to Kathleen to making me smile and giving me the nudge I needed to sit and write.


	7. Charlie and Amelia

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

The waiter was completely unsure as to what to think of table five. They had ordered a ton of food, so he wasn't worried about his tip, but he was starting to question their sanity. Four people sat at the table, two couples that were making enough small talk to make it obvious to anyone that this was two blind dates. The responsible parties for these two dates, however, were paying more attention to each other than to their dates. They'd done most of the talking, all of the ordering and he'd definitely seen the girl kick the guy more than once under the table. Normally he didn't have all this time to observe his customers, but tonight was an unusually slow night. When he saw the second girl look around the restaurant, he decided to go back and take drink refills to fill in the lull of conversation.

As the waiter came for the fifth time to refill their drinks, Rory looked across the table and gave Amelia an encouraging smile. Of course, she gave Tristan a swift kick at the same time, in order to encourage him to try another conversation. Deciding she should try her own advice, she looked over at Charlie, who was pushing food around on his plate, and every so often raising a bit of food to his face and giving it a sniff. Rory wanted to drag Tristan out into the alleyway and ask him where he picked up this man with no manners, she could only guess he was found in some stray barn from upstate. Charlie was an advertising executive that Tristan met in college. Evidently they were fraternity brothers, which was about the same as her barn scenario in her own mind. Talking to him was beyond a chore, but she was trying to put on a brave face and set a good example. After all, Amelia, though seemingly a bit shy tonight, was a wonderful person. She's bright, interesting, usually cheerful and upbeat without being too annoying—yet Tristan didn't seem to notice her good qualities.

The thing that killed it for Tristan was her instant dislike of the food. Now, had she actually tried the food first and found it offensive to her taste buds, well, that was one thing. But she just looked at it, scrunched up her nose and began drinking her water. She was the reason the poor waiter had to come so often to their table. This guy was earning his tips, though he was more than attentive to their table. Though the way the guy was eyeing Rory, Tristan was sort of thinking that he was being attentive to more than their water needs. Of course, Tristan had to pay attention to Rory this evening—she kept kicking him when he talked to her too much, or started to roll his eyes at his date. He was thinking she was just starting to enjoy bruising his shins with her lethal-looking boots.

"So, Charlie, tell me about your work," Rory pasted on a fake smile as Tristan took a drink of his water in efforts to keep himself busy and therefore unable to talk. He watched Rory's false facial expressions, knowing that she was trying harder than she usually does on dates. That smile wasn't her true smile, and he wanted nothing more than to call her on it. Instead, he put his glass down and looked over to his own date, while listening to Charlie's retort.

"I'm working on an ad for Axe Body Spray," he said, sounding pleased with himself.

Rory held in a loud groan. She loathed most commercials enough; they were truly becoming more and more inane. But she found those particular commercials reprehensible. She thought they might be the worst things ever to be caught on film. But that's not what she said.

"Oh, how interesting," she said, before popping another bite of curry chicken into her mouth, savoring the flavor.

"Amelia, tell me, what's your column about this week?" Tristan asked, as Charlie went back to glaring at his food as if it might come back to life and eat him instead.

"Oh, you read my column?" she said, sounding mildly happy for the first time this evening. For some reason, she found the fact that he was a lawyer offensive. He couldn't help it if his father had managed to rope him into interning at his company during college and he'd found that he was both good at the work and enjoyed it. To this girl, it was some kind of crime to have anything to do with the legal system and make money off of 'those poor defenseless saps' or worse 'freeing maniacs to make a living'. He was overjoyed at her ability to express herself so freely. He failed to mention he was in probate law, and didn't let murderers run free.

"No, it's just that Rory told me you write for the Times. That's right, isn't it?"

"Yes, Rory and I both write columns at the Times," she agreed, pushing her plate farther away from her person.

"Yeah, Rory writes that amazing political column. What section is your column in again?"

"Wait, you read Rory's column?"

Tristan stopped, realizing that now Amelia was forming some sort of weird, catty connection between the words that were coming out of his mouth innocently enough. He was just trying to make conversation; something this girl had no real interest in, obviously. He looked to Rory, desperate for her to start some group discussion, hoping to get Amelia off her his attention to Rory versus his attention to Amelia thread. He nudged her foot with his, which startled her and made her sit up suddenly in her chair. When she said nothing, he decided to take matters into his own hands. And have a little fun in the process.

"So, Rory why don't you tell us about the time you kissed Paris," Tristan suddenly commented, as she sat there, now open mouthed gaping at him.

Charlie's interest perked up, and Amelia looked ready to kill. Rory was sure she had turned five shades of red and had about had it with this double date.

"What?" she exclaimed, trying to make it sound as if Tristan were crazy. Though from the look on Amelia's face, she was sure that it wasn't such a stretch. Charlie looked way too happy about this, and she could practically see him fall back on the evolutionary scale as the moments passed before Tristan spoke again.

"You were just telling me, on the phone the other day, you remember," he insisted, a smart-ass grin covering his face.

"No, Tristan, we were talking about your stint at military school. Tell Amelia how you got sent there when you broke into that safe in high school," she smirked back and gave him another kick under the table.

He narrowed his eyes, not noticing that Amelia was shifting uncomfortably away from him at this point. Charlie looked disappointed, as the girl on girl action topic had been sidestepped. Tristan was all Rory could see now, and the debate was on.

"No, I know what would be more interesting. We could talk about your fifteen minutes of fame," he said, looking particularly proud of himself, leaning back into his chair.

She felt dread fill her, not sure what the hell he was talking about. He looked way too happy for him to be completely full of hot air, and for the life of her, she just couldn't imagine what had come to the forefront of his mind.

"You know, that speech you gave on C-SPAN senior year of high school. You see, Rory here was a hot-shot valedictorian and was chosen to give some speech about school pride or some such non-sense," he began, and Rory's eyes closed. She felt all the blood rush out of her head, and she wanted to disappear. Why he was doing this, she wasn't sure. Maybe he was bored and wanted to amuse himself. Maybe he was bitter about her choice in dates for him, but this had been his idea, and couldn't he see what he had picked for her?

"Tristan, I think we should have a chat," she managed, standing up to leave the table.

"No, Rory, I'm not finished. See, she and this other girl were giving this speech, and the other girl was a complete raving psycho and instead of talking about school pride, she starts ranting about how she just got laid and--," he started, Charlie being mildly interested, and Amelia looking as if she just wanted to disappear from her chair.

"Tristan, now," she said, grabbing his shirtsleeve and forcibly pulling him up from his chair and down the hall towards the bathrooms.

"You know, you're remarkably strong," he joked, as she pushed him towards the wall.

"What the hell is your problem?" she drilled him.

"You know, I thought it was girls that went to the bathroom together," he smirked, tapping the 'Ladies' sign on the door next to them.

"Shut up! Seriously, what is your problem?"

"I was just having fun. What do you care if these people hear old stories from high school?" he said rolled his eyes as he crossed his muscular arms over his equally defined chest.

She looked into his eyes, as they still twinkled with the thrill of debate. She knew he liked to argue—he was a lawyer after all. She hated that she was almost enjoying seeing him like this, argumentative and she had to admit that he was more attractive when he got like this. A little heated, eyes full of life, pretty soon he's push his shirt sleeves up—it gave her mental images that went beyond where their friendship was.

"I told you this was a bad idea," she said simply, mimicking his movements but leaning on the wall across from him.

"Yes, but you said they would run off together. I don't think Charlie is Amelia's type," he chuckled.

"Charlie isn't anyone's type. He's maybe a notch above an amoeba on the food chain," she bit back at him.

"Ouch! I gave great consideration as to what kind of guy you deserved," he said with that same twinkle in his eye. He was trying to provoke her. Even though she realized it, she couldn't help but play this game.

"Bull. You wanted to see me miserable again. You have this sick desire to hear about my bad dates on the phone, face it; you enjoy seeing me go on bad date after bad date. Well, no more. I'm finished."

"Oh, come on, Rory," he started, not meaning to completely piss her off.

"No, seriously. Not only am I saying no more blind dates, I'm saying no more dates. For at least a year. I've earned it, I've suffered quite enough, and this evening is officially over."

He looked at her, trying to assess how serious she was. This wasn't the desired effect this evening was supposed to have on her. He had to admit, he hadn't thought that she had picked this girl out for him to actually like—she wasn't his type at all. Her personality clashed with his—she seemed way too serious, sort of jealous of other girls, and way too brash. He admired people who spoke their minds, but there was a good way and a bad way to do so. This girl obviously hadn't been brought up with any refinement at all. As his grandfather would say, she was obviously from a new money family—which was worse than coming from no money at all. At least, personality wise. He picked someone polar opposite from himself, and he had assumed she had done the same. Maybe she wasn't aware of this game they were playing here, he thought to himself and decided to try to coax her into staying a little longer.

"Rory, just come back to the table. We'll make them suffer through dessert and then I'll drop you off at your house," he promised, dropping the antagonistic attitude.

She looked at him with scrutiny, as if she would see something in him that would make her decision. She bit the skin under her lip, and shifted her weight to her left leg.

"No more talk about me and Paris kissing. Or my and Paris' speech. Which I can't even believe you saw, by the way. In fact, quit mentioning Paris at all," she said commandingly.

"Fine. But you have to tell me about the kissing thing! It's killing me," he gave her his best smile, which made the pit of her stomach feel like she'd just gone downhill on a roller coaster.

"Someday, I promise. Now, let's go finish dinner," she said, making her exit as he ushered her forward with a grandiose swoop of his forearm. The made their way back to the table, to find it completely deserted, save for the plates and Rory's purse. She looked to Tristan, and he just started laughing as they sat back down.

The waiter sighed as he watched the two people at table five talk and laugh, finally taking over dessert menus for them. He smiled politely, nodding as they each made their selection, and wondered when they'd realize that they were the ones on the date tonight.

AN: Okay, it's going to be a while between updates for a little while. I'm changing jobs and moving—all in the next two weeks. So, I hope you enjoy this chapter and I'll update as soon as I can!


	8. Flowers and Food Fights

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

She had just turned on the oven to preheat it so sometime in the next hour she could be enjoying pizza with a crisp crust. This time she wouldn't be burning it; she would watch it like a hawk. She'd all but given up on pizza delivery—the guys just couldn't get it to her door still resembling warm, everyone of them seemed to get lost finding the place. It's New York; you'd think they'd get better at this. It was times like this she longed for small town life, where the pizza guy knows your name, what you like on your pizza; hell all her mother has to do is call and they see her name pop on caller ID and she has her custom order in fifteen minutes. It was just as well she heard her doorbell ring before she could put the pizza in to warm up. She was pretty sure if she hadn't burned the last one to a crisp it would have tasted like cardboard.

Standing in the doorway was a blonde headed man in jeans and a plain t-shirt under his leather jacket holding a sunflower. One perfect sunflower. She couldn't help but smile, he looked like a dejected boyfriend begging for forgiveness. His shoulders were slumped a little, and his eyes were full of remorse. She couldn't imagine what this was about, but it made her curious.

"Whatcha' got there?" she asked, leaning one arm on the doorframe.

"Can I come in?" he asked, looking past her a little, as if he might have caught her at an inopportune time.

"Uh, sure, come on in," she said, moving so he could enter the modest apartment. He shrugged off his jacket, and she took it from him, hanging it up next to hers on the coat rack in her front entry way. When she turned back to him, he held out the flower awkwardly.

"This is for you," he said as if she couldn't' figure it out for herself.

"Thanks," she took the flower and looked at him again. "Tristan, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just thought after last weekend you were going to be pissed, and you haven't returned any of my calls," he explained, moving to sit on the couch. He looked like he was anchoring himself in case she tried to remove him from the apartment.

She smiled, and realized there were details she'd left out when she said goodnight to him last Saturday night. After finishing off their dessert at the Indian place, long after their respective dates had dumped them, he'd been true to his word in driving her home. He walked her up to the door, making sure she got in safe. They'd lingered in her doorway, making conversation just interesting enough to not let the evening end so soon. She thought about inviting him in for coffee, but was unsure as to how he would take the invitation. But not as unsure as to how she would have meant the invitation. Finally she'd gotten so flustered and frustrated with herself, she'd told him she needed to get to sleep and he left. She'd completely left out the fact the reason she needed extra rest was that she was going to be gone on business all week.

"Tristan, I was in Atlanta all week, I didn't know you'd called," she smiled as she sat next to him on the couch. "At least, not until about fifteen minutes ago when I got home and let my machine unburden itself. I was going to call you tonight, I promise," she put her hand on his knee reassuringly.

He looked from her face to her hand. He was glad she hadn't been ignoring him, but now his efforts seemed romantic instead of apologetic, and perhaps he was crazy, but she seemed to be responding to his actions. He didn't know what to say, which was uncharacteristic for him. As she removed her hand from his knee during his silence, he realized his incapacity for speech came because he didn't know what he wanted.

"Oh, well, that's good," he offered lamely. He felt her bizarre look pass through him, and he figured he just needed to get out of here. "Was I interrupting your dinner? I smell the oven," he said, standing up.

"Well, actually, I think I'm going to order out. Do you want some Chinese?" she invited him, feeling his uneasiness, wanting him to feel like he can just come over and hang out.

"Well, I, uh," he was interrupted by the sound of her phone ringing. She motioned for him to wait as she moved to grab the cordless phone off its receiver. She answered and immediately she erupted into giggles. He watched as she turned around, gesticulating as if she were having a face-to-face conversation with whoever was on the other end of the line. All he knew was she was talking about having been kidnapped and held ransom one moment and laughing out loud at how some diner man wasn't mocking movies enough for some reason. By the time she got off the phone he was utterly flabbergasted and had to stay long enough to find out what that was about. So when she hung up and immediately redialed the Chinese place his answer of "Kung Pow Chicken" rolled off his tongue when she asked what he wanted.

"Okay, so who was that?"

She looked back at him, as she rummaged around in the fridge to find some beverages for them before the food arrived. The one thing she really liked about her neighborhood was the top rate Chinese restaurant on the corner. The food would be here in about fifteen minutes due to her close proximity.

"On the phone?"

"Yeah, the obviously schizophrenic you were speaking to?"

She laughed and handed him a Coke. "That schizo is my mother, thank you very much."

"That was your mother?"

"Yeah, you sound surprised. You don't talk to your mother?" she took a Coke for herself and shut the door.

"Where are your chopsticks?" he asked and retrieved them as she pointed to the appropriate drawer. "Yes, I speak to my mother, but not like that. It's more, proper," he chose the last word, deciding it fit.

"Well, proper is never a word that described my mother. We're best friends, I tell her everything. And then some," she added, smiling genuinely as she thought of her mother as she leaned over and flipped the oven setting to off.

He nodded, wondering for a moment what it would be like to have that kind of relationship with either of his parents. It wasn't that he never spoke to them, but they never really talked. They fell into conversation that remained unbroken even as the delivery guy came and handed off the food.

"So, tell me something," he said, after downing some Coke to wash down the mouthful of chicken and rice.

"What?" she said, her mouth newly stuffed with a bite of egg roll. She did put a dainty hand up over her mouth to hide the sight from his eyes, the contrast of manners making him shake his head in amusement at her.

"I think I'm going to get you a Miss Manners book for Christmas," he laughed, and she lightly punched him on the bicep.

"Fine, fine, what I was going to ask is this. Were you serious?"

She swallowed and looked at him indicated she didn't follow what he meant. "Serious about what?"

"About not dating anyone."

She sat back, taking her soda with her as she relaxed and took a break from the food. She wasn't sure if she had meant it, though it always seemed a viable option.

"Well, I don't know. Maybe for a while. It's nice to be alone, hanging out with friends, not having the torture of dating on your hands, you know?"

"It's a necessary evil, though."

"But I don't need sex like you do," she chided.

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

She rolled her eyes. "What do you think it means?"

"You think I go on dates just for sex?"

A more pointed look from her this time. "How many of these girls would you say you didn't sleep with?"

"I never slept with Amelia. Or Heather," he added, as if proud of remembering the last one.

"Ooh, wonder why," she laughed.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You're saying you don't have sex with any of your dates?"

"First dates? No way. And most of the set ups I've been on are completely out of the question."

"Huh."

"What?" she looked at the pure amazement on his face, as if this were some new concept to be grasped. "Tristan?"

"It's just, if what you're saying is true, when do you ever, you know?"

A deep red blush crept up from her neck until it hit the top of her ears. Her cheeks flamed crimson and she once again admonished herself for the recent rash of blushing she was doing.

"Oh, I see," he realized from her blush what she wasn't going to say. A smile spread slowly over his features, clearly happy with himself for making her react so strongly.

"Shut up," she warned, holding out a chopstick towards him as if it were a weapon. He had no doubt that she might try and use it as such. When his smile turned to an involuntary laugh that he just couldn't hold in, he was suddenly met with a chunk of garlic chicken hitting his cheek. He looked in surprise, and within moments, bits of flavored chicken were flying across the couch, along with egg roll and pot stickers. A full-fledged food fight was on and when they ran out, they were laughing so hard they couldn't see straight, doubled over at the absurdity of their actions.

Not being able to resist after they calmed to a point that they could pick up the mess, her still emitting small choruses of giggles, he asked one more question.

"So, what exactly do you use?"

She smacked his arm, shaking her head in the process. "I'm not going to discuss this with you," she said simply.

"Aw, come on," he pleaded.

"Nuh-uh. Don't you need to be going, you'll be late for your late night sex date," she chastised him.

"I'm here with you, I'm not running off to meet some floozy," he pointed out.

The way he said it, it caused a chill to run down her spine. The line between just friends and the kinds of thoughts she had about him when she caught herself daydreaming at work or on the subway home was becoming blurrier. Things like the topics of their conversations, the tone of his voice when he said certain things, they way he just seemed to appear when she was thinking of him; everything became unclear. There was always an air of thus unexplored possibility in their exchanges.

"Oh," she managed.

"Do you want me to get going?" his voice still in that tone; the fog inducing, blur filled tone.

"Uh, well, it's getting late," she mustered her wits about her and tried to think logically. This whole evening, while enjoyable was just confusing her.

He nodded and stood again. "I guess I'll see you around," he pulled on his jacket and she moved to open the door for him.

"Yeah, I'll give you a call," she promised, standing awkwardly before him. He looked down at her, smiled despite the awkwardness—perhaps because of it. He nodded and she moved closer to him. Suddenly her arms were around him, and he felt her hug him tightly. He put his arms around her as well, returning the hug.

"Thanks for the flower," she whispered, before letting him go and watching as he stepped out into the hall. She watched him wave and turn down the hall towards the elevator before shutting the door behind him, turning the lock slowly before heading back to the quiet of her apartment.

AN: this was sort of a transitional chapter, but I feel still important. I hope you enjoyed it. By a small miracle, I didn't have to go into work today and I got more chance to write. The next chapter will be up as soon as I can get it done.


	9. Morty and Platonic Favors

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

Rory knew this proper conversation of niceties was going to get to a point soon. A point that she probably wouldn't like, and would have end up with her making plans to do something that would involve her in an evening in a dress she will hate, and talking to people that make her long for her robe and slippers. And a lobotomy. Emily's conversations always ended up with Rory promising to do something dreadful involving Emily's various social engagements. Her 'responsibilities' she called them.

"So, dear, how is work lately? They're treating you right?"

"Yes, Grandma, they're treating me right. My assignments are getting more interesting and they're starting to give me more responsibility."

"Well, it's about time they realize what kind of talent they have on their hands," she commented, sounding very much the part of a proud parent.

"Thanks, Grandma. How's Grandpa doing?"

"Oh, who knows! He's in his study now more than ever; I can't imagine what he could be doing in there hours on end. I tell you, ever since he retired, I see him less now than when he was working."

"Well, at least he's relaxing," Rory offered.

"That's true. Now, dear, what are your plans for this weekend?"

Ah, the true reason for the call. Rory knew Emily would only make small talk as long as she felt it was necessary to make the call appear to be not just about whatever it was she was actually after. Rory prepared for the worst and opened her closet as she rummaged around in search of her favorite t-shirt to pull on for an evening of relaxing herself. She'd just gotten home barely thirty seconds before Emily called—she swore this woman had some sort of radar on her movements. Lorelai had been swearing this for years, it was only since Rory turned 25 and was still single that Emily kicked in with full force with her.

"Uh, I'm not sure yet, Grandma, why?"

"Well, it just so happens that the Hartford Historical Society is throwing a gala to commemorate the addition of the new wing, you know, sort of a grand reopening deal to the Revolutionary War Museum here. Well, I'm on the committee for the Gala and I need to supply people. I was hoping I could include you on the guest list?"

"Uh, well, I can come, but I don't think I'll be able to scrounge up a date by this weekend," Rory added, hoping Emily got the point that her usual invite of one meaning a commitment of two guests as seat fillers couldn't be taken for granted on such short notice.

"Oh, Rory, that's fine. In fact, there is someone that will be in attendance that you might actually find interesting."

Rory could hear the scheming in her grandmother's voice. Emily was planning a set up and, after all the set ups she'd been on in the last few months, she was left feeling weary. Too weary to argue with such an admirable competitor. Maybe Lorelai could get her out of it after the fact.

"Is that so, Grandma?"

"Well, you never know, right?"

"Yeah, you never know."

"You aren't seeing anyone, are you?"

"No, I'm not," she reiterated, as if her prior comments hadn't been enough to insinuate that fact to Emily. Even at her age, she missed nothing and was determined to see Rory married and get to see her first great grandchild or die trying. She was pacified for a while when Lorelai got married, but after some gloating at the fact that she'd called her on the fact that the 'diner man' had been in love with her years ago, she turned her attentions to Rory. No, Emily definitely never missed a beat.

"Well, then I guess we'll see you Saturday evening at the Museum?"

"Yes, I'll see you then."

With that, Rory hung up the phone and threw her nice dress shirt off, pulling the comfortable t-shirt on over her head in one swift motion. She shimmied her skirt off, and pulled her favorite sweatpants off her bedspread and pulled them up over her hips before leaving the bedroom and heading into the kitchen. She grabbed leftover Chinese food, an almost constant staple at her house, and a fork before heading to the couch to flip through the channels on television for a while. After five rotations through the entire gambit, she gave up and picked up the phone again. She was in a talking mood, and figured the call would come through to her soon enough if she didn't make the first move.

"Hello?" came the low voice she was just getting used to hearing coming over the receiver.

"Hey, Luke. Is Mom around?"

"Oh, hey Rory. Yeah, just let me pull her out from under the sink."

"Wait, Luke—um, what?" Rory couldn't imagine what Lorelai could be doing under a sink. In fact, the only reason to be under the sink was to fix it, take out the trash or grab the dish soap. All of which were things that weren't Lorelai friendly.

"It's a long story. It started with a supposed sighting of a mouse, then talk of mousetraps and the inhumane treatment of rodents—to make the story short, she's convinced she can reason with the critter and get him to crawl back out the way he came in."

Rory smiled, realizing that her mother was just getting crazier now that she lived with Luke. But she figured her antics were more to entertain Luke than anything else.

"Yeah, I probably shouldn't have asked."

"Hang on a sec," he instructed, and Rory heard some muffled voices and her mother was shortly on the line.

"Hey!"

"Hey, Mom. How's Mickey?"

"Morty."

"Morty?"

"Definitely a Morty."

"I see. Should I ask why?"

"Probably not. What's up?"

"Well, I was just wondering if you'd mind if I came home this weekend."

"Emily called you."

"You going?"

"Uh, well, see, I would, but Luke has this diner convention in Atlantic City, and wives are obligated to attend," she did her best to keep a straight face and unwavering voice.

"Tell me Grandma didn't fall for that."

"Oh, of course not. But she can't prove anything, and I plan on bringing a top of the line spatula to the next dinner I attend at her house as proof."

"Very original."

"I try."

"So, I have to go, and there's someone I 'might just find interesting' that will be there, too."

"Ah, good old Emily," Lorelai commented, smiling into the phone.

"Mom, how do I get out of this? I've been on so many blind dates lately, and I just don't think I can take another one."

"Bring Tristan."

"What?"

"Well, aren't you two friends? He's your partner in crime in bad dates, right?"

"Mom, I can't ask him to do that," Rory informed her.

"Why not?"

"'Cause it would seem like a date."

"It'd be a pretend date."

"Mom, it's just not a good idea. We do better on the phone than in person as far as a friendship goes."

"Still no in person contact since the night of weird vibes?"

"I shouldn't have told you about that."

"What? Hey, it happens to all people who are secretly attracted to each other but are trying to repress their feelings and be friends."

"Wow. Been waiting to say that long?" Rory teased.

"Honey, I know you think you two are better off as friends, but why else would it have been weird if there was nothing there?"

"I really shouldn't have mentioned it."

"Well, I think it's admirable of you to try to be just friends with a hot guy."

Rory rolled her eyes. "Well, thanks, Mom. But if you can't be any service in my getting out of this Emily obligation, I think I need to get some work done."

"Are you staying here or at the Inn?"

"I think I'll stay at the Inn. Luke in his boxers freaks me out."

"Oh, it was just that once!"

"One time too many, thank you."

"Fine, baby, I'll save a room at the Inn. All weekend?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Mom."

"Bye, hun, love you."

"Love you too."

With that, Rory hung up the phone, giving a brief thought to what her mother said about the last time she saw Tristan. After that night, she couldn't shake the weird feeling she had, so she'd called her mother at 1am, rambling out the whole story of how they met up again and their friendship that developed largely over the phone up until the night of the disastrous double date. Lorelai had listened, asked if she were sure there was nothing there, and all Rory could answer was that she wasn't Tristan's type. She asked her mom if she'd ever had a strictly platonic relationship with a man, and she said that she'd had that with Luke before they came to their senses and got together. At that point, Rory hung up and tried to sleep. She'd talked to Tristan a few times since, it had just been a week ago since he'd come over, flower in hand looking apologetic. Their phone calls since had been different—as if both were treading lightly around topics they would normally think nothing of teasing the other about. They spoke nothing of dating, sticking mainly to work and other safe topics. Topics where no double meanings could be deciphered. It was unnatural to say the least.

She looked back at the phone, thinking it wouldn't be so bad for Tristan to join her this coming weekend. Maybe they could work out the weirdness and get back to the good foundation of friendship they'd been building. It was late notice, just a day before she would leave for Stars Hollow, but having him there would take all pressure off her from her grandmother, and he would fit into that crowd nicely. She felt the surge of courage coarse through her veins as she dialed quickly before she could get the sound of her mother's voice suggesting this out of her mind.

"Hey, Rory," he answered. It had freaked her out the first time he did that, as she hadn't counted on him checking his caller ID every time he answered his phone. She has the function on her phone too, but she rarely remembers to check it before answering.

"Hey," she retorted, smacking a hand to her forehead due to the lack of words coming to her mind.

"What was that?" he asked, concerned about the smacking noise he heard.

"Oh, that was the thing on the thing, uh, so I have a question for you," she covered badly and got to the point. She wasn't one to beat around the bush like her grandmother.

"Shoot," he encouraged her.

"Uh, it's just that I've been roped into this obligatory function thing this weekend and I was wondering if you wanted to join me and help me appear not too pitifully single to all the meddling people at said function."

There was a brief silence on the line, as if he were truly trying to decide. She was pacing, running her fingers over the spine of her books as she moved past one of her many bookcases that lined the walls of her apartment.

"Well, I would, but I have plans this weekend. If it was something I thought I could get out of, I would definitely cancel and help you out," he assured her.

"Oh, no, it's no big deal. It's last minute, I figured you'd have plans," she reasoned.

"Yeah, well, I am sorry."

"It's fine, really," she said, allowing the silence between them to build for a moment after her decorous last comment. They were still being painfully polite to the other, and it was starting to irk her. She wondered how he himself could stand it; it went against everything their entire relationship was based on.

"So, other than getting roped into that, is everything else alright?"

"Oh, yeah. You?"

"Yeah. I'm good."

"Good," she agreed.

More silence. She wanted to pull her hair out by the roots just to have something else other than the audible silence to focus on. Maybe her worries that there was something more developing here last week really were crazy. They could barely speak to the other.

"Well, I should get going. I have an early meeting tomorrow," he said at last.

"Oh, right. Well, I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah. Night."

"Night."

He heard her bid him goodbye, hung up the phone before throwing it next to him on the couch. He put his head immediately into his hands, rubbing his temples with his index fingers slowly. He hated this awkwardness that was between them now, and he felt completely responsible. He knew the flower was too much when he was standing outside her door, but at that point, he couldn't get rid of it. . . And her invitation was the perfect chance for him to make things normal again. But no, he had these stupid plans he'd been suckered into. Shaking his head, he walked down the hall into the bedroom, turning out the lights before pulling the covers up over his head to block out the light from the street.


	10. Observations and Harsh Words

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

He politely studied the new additions to the collection. He'd been in this particular museum more times than he cared to count, on various school outings and social functions. It was a popular site for fundraisers, as the New England set seemed to like to revel in the fact that they have the oldest American artifacts. He'd been in the museum about thirty minutes this evening, and had just gotten away from his mother and the people he was obligated to meet just five short minutes ago. His grandfather was there, as well as his parents. He knew both had given a lot of money, probably even some in his name. His mother seemed unable to sign any card or charity offering without all three of their names, it was just too engrained in the movement of her wrist. She'd been doing it since she found out she was pregnant with a boy. He moved to the next exhibit, pretending to study it with great interest until he heard the clinking of glasses signifying the need for everyone's attention to be turned to the main podium.

He stood behind his mother, glass of champagne that had been distributed throughout the crowd by waiters in tuxedos. The curator went on and on about the generous contributions that made the new wing possible and the amazing turnout tonight. He looked about, noticing the room was filled with people his parents' age and up, with a few people thirty and under scattered about. Those who were brought up in money or went out and made theirs fast. He belonged to both categories, and gave a sigh, letting his mind slip back to Rory's voice asking him to accompany her this weekend. He'd wanted to go, but couldn't back out of a promise to his mother. He would never understand why these infernal events were so important to her, but the body count seemed crucial for some reason. She'd asked for him to bring a date, to which he normally complied. She had sounded surprised when he said that he'd be coming alone tonight. Not that he really thought his parents approved of his choice in women. Well, his father might. It's not like he brought these women to these functions to meet his family. They were obligations, something that couldn't be avoided, and then they split to have a good time afterwards. The next weekend brought another woman. It'd been this way since Tristan was old enough to date. In fact, he'd never brought the same girl twice.

He raised his glass as he saw everyone else doing it, and brought the smoothed out edge of the fine crystal lip up to his mouth as the curator finished her speech with a toast. He had the chilled bubbles up to his lips when he saw a familiar but somehow out of place figure on the other side of the room. Her long brown hair was pulled up in some sort of twist. He wasn't sure the name of the hairstyle, but he always liked how the hair falls out in an almost circular drop before splaying about the shoulders. He let his imagination run off for a moment, imagining how good it would feel to run his fingers through her hair as she let it down at the end of the evening. He blinked, as he pulled his attention back to the present. She was leaned up against a partial wall, one that opened out into the next room of displays. She was wearing a slinky black dress, one that hugged her in all the right places before flaring out a little above the knee and stopping shortly thereafter. She looked amazing, to say the least, and her eyes were all lit up as she laughed.

She was laughing, and reached out to stabilize herself on the person that seemed to be initiating the laughter. He watched her hand on this man's forearm, and it lingered there as the guy glanced down towards the connection and smiled warmly at her. He nodded, and opened his mouth again to continue. She looked happy, completely enthralled in what this man was saying and immediately his heart sank. Tristan felt claustrophobic suddenly, a sensation he'd never experienced before in his life. He had just been about ready to approach her, but now felt he should walk out of the room before she noticed him.

Then it hit him. Perhaps she had noticed him. Maybe she'd seen him and not wanted to leave this new man to say even a simple hello. He downed the rest of his glass, allowing the animated liquid to tickle his throat as it made its way down. He needed to get a grip on himself. Rory wasn't the kind of person to ignore someone she knew, especially a friend. And that's what he was; he was her friend. This wasn't a big deal; after all, he'd seen her on dates before. Plenty of them. He'd never felt this way before.

But he'd never seen her look at someone like that.

Making his way back to the room he'd been in before the toast, he busied himself with looking concentrated on the displays again. This was the surest way not to be disturbed and roped into boring shoptalk. Even though he liked his job, he loathed telling his grandfather's friends about his job. He was deciding how long he needed to stick around before he could be in the clear to escape. He might be able to handle a Rory-free hour, but with her here looking like that on the arm of some guy she liked—he figured maybe twenty more minutes if he had no direct contact with her. That put him at about an hour, and that was all his mother needed from him.

"Tristan?"

He closed his eyes, not wanting to turn around. He plastered the most of a smile as he could manage before turning towards her and faking the same level of revelation.

"Rory?"

"What are you doing here?"

He smiled and pointed in the direction of his folks. "Family dragged me. You?"

She blushed and nodded. "Yeah, my grandma's pretty relentless."

"Your grandmother? You looked like you were on a date," he mentioned, trying to sound carefree, but it came off more bitter than he'd intended.

"Oh, you saw Daniel?" she gave a half turn from the direction she'd just come from, he figured looking for Daniel's whereabouts.

"Yeah, I did."

"Why didn't you come say hello?"

"You looked like you were having a moment, I didn't want to interrupt." Again with the bitterness. She was beginning to lose the ability to ignore his tone.

"There was no moment," she said defensively. He couldn't blame her for reacting to his attitude.

"Look, it's fine."

"Tristan, there have been no moments. We've just been talking for ten minutes. Louise and Madeline didn't even move that fast."

He wanted to smile at the reference to their slutty high school friends, but he remained stoic and unwavering. He wasn't going to show more emotion, and he scolded himself for letting his voice tell on him.

"Well, I guess you should be getting back to him. You didn't need to come all the way over here to keep me company."

"First of all, I wasn't over here to see you. I was looking for the bathroom when I saw you. Secondly, I guess I should leave, I wouldn't want Barbie to get the wrong idea."

Now her tone was as biting as his, and he wanted to climb under the buffet table on the opposite end of the room. He could take angry clients, his father when he was drunk, and any general scathing comments from any enemies he'd managed to make over his lifetime. But from her, it was different. It was like being cut with a razor sharp blade instead of a pair of grade school safety scissors.

"Barbie?"

"You know, whatever the dumb blonde's name is," she rolled her eyes.

"I'll have you know I'm here alone, as a favor to my mother. This is why I couldn't help you out this weekend, but I'm glad to see you aren't going to be lonely. Good evening," he pushed the words out of his mouth as quickly as he could manage and turned to find his jacket. He left her standing there, mouth gaping and hands on her hips watching as he walked away through the crowd of Italian suits and designer gowns.

AN: Hehe. I feel evil, and I admit, I do like it. I'm still working on the intricacies of this evolving feeling on both their parts. . . and here you all thought he was going to be her date! I love it! Thanks to EVERYONE for the wonderful reviews, I enjoy seeing that you are enjoying this. The stress of life is calming down, so hopefully I'll be able to get writing at a more preferable pace for me.


	11. Lost and Found

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

Her mood shifted from light to confused to downright furious in the short time that was their conversation. Her hands were still pressed firmly into her hips, and she watched as his back disappeared into the crowd of people in evening attire. She wasn't expecting to see him tonight—it simply never occurred to her that this would be what his plans were. She was here to be set up by her grandmother, and even though she would have rather spent the time with Tristan, Daniel was a wonderful man. He had gone to Yale, graduating two years before Rory had. He was much more attractive than the usual pedigree that she saw at these parties Emily dragged her to. He had a sense of humor and let her talk, which was refreshing. He was just fine. She wanted to run after Tristan and yell at him, tell him all this and keep talking until he realized how rare those qualities in a man are. To ask him why he can't just be happy for her.

"I thought you were going to the restroom," came Daniel's voice from beside her.

"Oh, right. I forgot," she shook her head, looking into his eyes. They were friendly eyes, and he gave her a confused smile.

"Okay. . . . Rory?"

"Yeah?" she looked up at him, her eyes wide.

"Are you okay?"

She looked at him for a beat longer, and then glanced at the direction Tristan had fled once again. She wasn't quite sure what to say, and her thoughts were swimming. She heard his biting words over in her mind, and desperately tried to figure out exactly where their conversation had made that turn into bitterness and anger. Perhaps he was already there before she approached him tonight.

"Rory? Did that guy upset you?"

She looked back at Daniel, biting her lip for a moment. She shook her head slightly and put her hand out on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Daniel. I have to go," she said simply before turning and disappearing into the crowd herself. She walked quickly, lest anyone stop her. She knew her coat was somewhere up near the front—Richard had checked all their coats at the door. If she hadn't been wearing such a sheer dress in winter, she wouldn't have bothered. She tapped her foot on the marble floors as the attendant took her ticket and began searching through the sea of black dress coats.

"Rory!"

Giving a silent groan of frustration, she turned slightly towards her grandmother who was advancing quickly.

"Hey, Grandma," she acknowledged.

"Where are you going? Daniel just came up to me and informed me that you just took off. Are you sick?"

"No, Grandma, this was a lovely event, but I have to go," she said, grabbing her long awaited coat from the teenaged attendant.

"Rory, I demand you tell me what is going on!"

"I'll call you tomorrow, Grandma, good night," she said, kissing her grandmother's cheek before sprinting out the door as fast as her heeled feet could take her.

She half expected to emerge into the bustling streets of New York, only to hear the relative quiet of Hartford. She pulled out her cell phone, unsure of exactly where to go. She went for the obvious and scrolled down to his name and pressed Send. She stood in the cold night air, pulling her coat closed around her as she began to pace back and forth as it rang on. Finally she got his voicemail and left a message to call her as soon as he got this. She stopped pacing and tried to think. She'd never been to his family's house in Hartford—all she knew in Hartford was Chilton, the mall and her grandparent's house. Sighing, she moved back into the museum to seek out some help.

It took her a moment, but she caught sight of him and wove back quickly through the crowd still in her coat. She waited politely for the men to reach a natural lull in conversation and put her hand on his arm.

"Rory, I thought you'd left," Richard said, turning so he could put his hand in the small of her back.

"Well, I was going to, but . . ." she looked around and leaned closer to her grandfather. "Could I speak to you in private for a moment?"

Richard followed her back towards the entrance, and after she spoke briefly he rifled through his wallet and handed her a business card. She hugged him gratefully and bid her goodbyes as she raced back outside and hailed a cab. She gave the address to the driver quickly, unable to settle back and enjoy the short ride. She tried to sort out her thoughts, but found them too tangled like prey in a spider web. She felt like she was sliding down a cliff, finding no handholds on the way down. She decided to take a deep breath to find she hadn't really been breathing at all.

The cab pulled up in the driveway, she paid the driver and got out. He asked if he should wait, but she insisted he head off even though she didn't even know if she would find what she was looking for here. The house looked very dark, and she made her way slowly to the large oak front door. She pressed the doorbell and waited, checking her cell phone for any activity.

By the time the door opened, her teeth were chattering in the air that was growing frosty. She could see her breath, and wished for her hat and her warm scarf. She'd expected a maid to answer, but instead standing in front of her was a disheveled Tristan. He was still in his dress shirt and pants, but the tie and jacket had been long since discarded. The shirt was open to almost half down his chest with the sleeves unbuttoned at the cuffs and his hair was rumpled.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, completely surprised to see Rory standing in the doorway to his grandfather's house.

"Can I come in?" she asked bravely, almost positive he would say no but hoping he would let her into the warmth if only to call another cab.

"How did you find me?"

"Can I please come in?"

He noticed suddenly that her teeth were chattering and her face was flushed from the cold air that was starting to get frosty and windy. Her breath was coming out in long puffs that almost reached him before the warmth was sucked into the cold air again.

"Yeah, come on in," he said, stepping back to allow her into the hall.

She looked around the looming house, noticing you could probably fit two of her grandparent's house in this particular mansion. She'd been in houses this big before, but only a small number of times. She didn't take her coat off, as she was still cold; instead she stood there rubbing her hands down her arms to warm up. He gestured to the main room, and led her towards the already lit fireplace.

"That's what I was doing when I heard the door," he explained as she looked gratefully at the fire.

"Oh," she said, sitting down on a chair next to the fireplace.

He watched her as she bit her lip, wondering if she was going to speak. He couldn't believe she'd sought him out—he didn't deserve it the way he'd acted at the museum. Perhaps he should say something, he thought, but he didn't even know where to begin.

"I'm sorry for barging in on you," she finally said.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked quietly as he sat on the couch opposite her chair.

"I asked my grandfather for the address. I know you've said that you prefer to stay here instead of with your parents when you're in town," she explained.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Rory, I'm sorry."

"For what?" her tone wasn't that of ignorance, but of real wondering. She wanted to see what his motivations for acting the way he did were. He had always been sarcastic with her, but never biting or mean.

"I shouldn't have been so angry with you—you didn't do anything wrong."

"No, I didn't," she agreed quietly. "Did something else happen to upset you?"

He shook his head, unable to look her directly in the eye. He began to fear that if he looked her in the eye, she'd be able to read everything he was feeling. He wasn't quite sure himself how he felt, so he kept his gaze on the fire cracking in the hearth.

"No, nothing happened, I was just—being an ass."

"Tristan," she barely spoke his name, her tone was barely a whisper. He looked into her eyes and for a moment they both looked like they desperately needed to say something to the other. He couldn't avert his gaze, she looked as if she were about to cry; but there was something else in her eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Can you show me to the bathroom? I never did make it at the museum," she said finally, looking away from his gaze first. He nodded before leading her towards the closest bathroom and then he moved to the kitchen for a drink. Anything to occupy some time.

She looked in the mirror after she washed her hands, and decided to splash some cool water on her face. There was something in his eyes just now that haunted her. He looked like he was about to unburden himself somehow, but something inside her broke and she asked for the bathroom before she made a fool of herself. She had to go back out there, and the tension between them was immeasurable. She wasn't sure how, but all she wanted to do at the moment was get back to the easy friendship they'd fallen into the last few weeks—before he came over to her apartment the week before. The tension had been mounting with every conversation and meeting they'd had since then. Taking another deep breath after she toweled her damp face off, she turned the knob slowly and headed out into the hallway.

He was nowhere to be found when she emerged. She followed the path back to the living room, and looked around for a moment, before seeing him come back in with two steaming mugs in his hands.

"I looked for coffee, but the servants have the night off and I couldn't find it, so I made hot chocolate," he explained, holding out a mug for her to take.

"Thanks," she smiled and pulled the mug close to her, wrapping her hands around it. She looked into the warm brown liquid, watching with fascination as the mini-marshmallows dissolved into the sea of chocolate.

"Rory," he sighed, putting his mug down on a side table. He turned to face her, noticing she'd taken her coat off after returning from the bathroom. She was still in that slinky black dress—he noticed in this light that it was nearly see through the material was so sheer. It'd seemed almost reflective in the bright lights at the museum. He swallowed hard, and put his arm over the back of the couch.

"Look, I just wanted to make sure that we're still okay," he phrased his words carefully, not wanting her take anything the wrong way.

"We're okay," she nodded. "Just. . . Did I do something to make you angry?"

Her eyes were concerned, growing wider by the moment. He hated himself for making her feel as if she were to blame for his fit. "No, you didn't do anything. I've just had a lot on my mind lately."

"Oh, work?" she managed, still clasping desperately to the mug in her hands.

"Yeah, work," he lied, hoping the universe wouldn't strike him down for telling a necessary falsehood.

"It's been crazy for me, too. All this week I've been killing myself, trying to make up for the week I was out of the office, then Grandma called to set me up at the museum tonight—all I wanted to do was hide in my office this weekend under the mountains of paperwork to alleviate the craziness," she explained.

"So, tonight was another set up?" he tried again to sound supportive, and it worked much better this time around than it had at the museum.

"Yeah, that guy, Daniel. I have to admit, he wasn't as bad as what everyone else has set me up with," she gave a small smile, unsure of how much of this to share with Tristan. Before, she gave no thought to giving him full details on her bad dates. But the way he'd reacted to her, whether it was really work-stress induced or not. . . she felt weird telling him that she had a good time on a date. Even if it was just for fifteen minutes.

"I didn't, I mean, you left him to come here?" he grimaced.

"It's fine," she assured him.

"No, you can still go back," he tried.

"Look, you and I, we needed to get whatever that was cleared up. You're my friend and if you need someone to talk to, I'm glad to help you out. Besides, I'm sure Grandma's already given him my number," she rolled her eyes.

He nodded, appreciative of her wanting to be there with him. He felt a slight burning in his abdomen when she mentioned this guy getting her number. He took a drink of his hot chocolate as she did the same.

"So, you'll see him again?" He didn't want to hear the answer. Either way she answered led to possibilities he didn't know if he was ready to face. He liked this limbo they existed in the last few weeks, sans last week, having the other as a confidant.

"Oh, I don't know. He was nice; smart, funny, attractive. But I don't know, there was just something missing, you know?"

Again, those blue eyes were mesmerizing him into nodding and keeping silent. He had no more words tonight; he just knew he needed to get away from her. This conversation was going to continue to get more tension filled, despite the lightness they were both pretending to be maintaining. Their topics of conversation almost seemed dangerous, as if both could be hurt at any given moment by the other's reactions to probing questions.

"Yeah, I know," he managed. "It's late. Do you need a ride somewhere?"

"Oh, I'll just call a cab," she said, setting her drained mug down on the table and standing to look for her coat which held her cell phone.

"I'll give you a ride," he insisted.

"No, Tristan, I'm staying at my mom's Inn, in Stars Hollow," she explained. "I'll be fine in a cab."

"I won't hear of it, let's go," he stopped her as she had started to dial, and she smiled gratefully as he moved to pull his shoes and jacket on. He led her back through the house and out into the garage, where his car was parked next to a Jaguar and a Rolls Royce in the four-car garage. She would never get used to seeing such luxury strewn about in the midst of someone's everyday life. Tristan led that kind of life from birth, where he would never look twice at such things. They were a part of his landscape, like her mother's mannequin for dressmaking was in her own. She felt at times like this that they were from different planets, not just zip codes.

She slid into the familiar leather interior, feeling comfortable immediately. She liked Tristan's car, having ridden in it a few times at this point. The first time was after their disastrous double date. He got in next to her, and turned the ignition on, and immediately his hand reached out to turn down the volume on the stereo, which had obviously been blaring at top volume when he'd last emerged. She gave a snicker at the action and he pulled out into the streets.

Very little was said on the ride. He knew how to get to Stars Hollow, but she navigated him through to the Inn, and he pulled up in the lot and turned off his ignition. He turned to face her in the bucket seats, and she gave a smile.

"You really, didn't have to do this," she reiterated.

"I know, I wanted to."

"It's so late," she said, checking her watch.

"It is late," he concurred.

"So, I'll see you back in the city?"

"Yeah," he agreed again. He wanted her to stay, just a moment longer, hoping he'd crack and confess the thoughts he'd been having about wanting to be the guy she'd been having fun with earlier in the evening. Ever since he'd gotten to his grandfather's house, he'd been superimposing his own image of that of her escort, and chastising himself for that and they way in which he'd spoken to her.

"Thanks, again, for the ride," she said, now feeling rather stupid. All that was left was for her to get out of the car, but she couldn't make her hand reach for the door handle. She wasn't quite ready yet.

He nodded, noticing her stalling. His breath stopped, and he watched as his hand reached out to lift the strap of her dress that had began to fall down her shoulder. She'd not put her coat back on, as they walked through the house into the garage without ever being outdoors. She had it securely in her lap, grasping onto it like a safety bar on a roller coaster. He noticed her eyes close as his fingers brushed her skin, and he couldn't have stopped his next action if he'd realized he was doing it.

He leaned over the console and brushed his lips to hers. He suddenly became hyperaware of his heart beating almost out of his chest, the feel of her lips moving softly against his in response, then his hand coming up under her hair and weaving into it. He was fully back into his body by the time he leaned back, and her eyes opened.

Her eyelids fluttered opened, and she couldn't quite believe that not a second before, his lips had been on hers except that she could still feel them as if they'd been burned onto her own. As his hand ran through the length of her hair, she gave a slight shudder until it fell away and back onto his lap.

"Night," she whispered before reaching for the door handle and letting herself out of his car. She closed the door softly, not waiting for a response from him as she made her way up the steps of the inn. She noticed the car was still sitting in the lot when she turned to pull the door shut behind her. Making her way into her room, she lay over the covers and touched two fingers gently to her lips.

AN: this was a long one, no? hmm. Well, there you go, and no, we're nowhere near done. At least, I have a few more things in store, I'll say that much. But I can only hear you request "GET THEM TOGETHER ALREADY" so much before having to give you a little taste, right? Anyhow, thanks for all the reviews, all are appreciated; I love your reactions and all that. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	12. Coffee and Hats

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

One of the perks of your mother owning her own inn is that you always have a free place to stay when you come home to visit. Unfortunately, this also means that she has the master key and could jump on your bed at eight o'clock on Sunday morning when she wants details of the previous night's happenings. Rory tried to ignore the bouncing and pulled the quilt up further over her head, holding tightly with her fist on the other side of her pillow.

"Go away," she tried in a sleepy voice, when the bouncing continued.

"It speaks!" came the gasp as the bouncing stilled.

"It's annoyed," came her curt reply.

"Rory, come on! The night manager called to tell me that you were dropped off by a very nice car in the wee hours of the morning," she said with a lilt in her voice.

"You're having people spy on me?" she brought the covers down just far enough to peek one eye out to look at her mother.

"Rory, this is Stars Hollow. I don't have to ask anyone to do any spying," she grinned at her daughter who was sporting a particularly bad case of bed-head this early morning.

"So, you knew I was out late and still you come in here at," she moved to squint towards the alarm clock on the night stand, "Eight in the morning?"

Lorelai shrugged. "I was up, I wanted to know."

"Why are you even up now?" Rory cried, flopping back down on her pillows.

"Luke, he gets up at these insane hours, and I guess over the last few years, he's brought me over to the dark side," she smiled happily.

"Wow. That look on your face is sort of sickening. Especially at this hour," Rory muttered the last part.

Lorelai sighed. "Fine. I figured you might react this way," she informed her before standing and moving to the door. Rory was relieved, for a moment thinking that Lorelai may just leave and let her get a few more hours sleep before trying this again.

But she should have known better. After all, she'd lived eighteen years with this woman. She frowned, realizing she was a little rusty on her mother's antics due to her living in New York the last few years.

When Lorelai reappeared in the room, she was holding a to-go tray full of Luke's coffee. Her nose disobeying her brain's cries for sleep, she sat up and reached out for the coffee. Lorelai just smiled, and shook her head.

"You really are my kid," she giggled.

"Coffee, now," she swiped at her mother.

"Will you spill?"

"The coffee? No," Rory smiled as she gave a loud yawn.

"No, details!"

Defeated and longing for a cup of Luke's coffee that she hadn't had in too long of a time, she nodded and gratefully received the cup her mother handed her as they both repositioned themselves on the bed. Rory pulled pillows up behind her to prop her up in her still not so awake state, and Lorelai sat cross-legged on the bed facing her.

"So, who does this car belong to?" Lorelai sipped her own cup of coffee waiting for Rory's response.

Playing with the plastic lid, Rory looked down for a moment before answering. She knew her mother was going to have a field day with this, and to be honest; she hadn't had enough time to process what had happened. When she woke up this morning, at the sound of the key being turned in the lock, before she was fully cognizant, her thoughts drifted to last night, scrolling through the party, the time at the mansion and then stopped on what happened in his car. She couldn't get the feel of his lips out of her mind, not that she would want to. She gave a smile, without realizing it.

"It was Tristan's car."

Lorelai noticed the dreamy look on her daughter's face, one she hadn't seen since Rory's last serious boyfriend had come on the scene back in college. Rory was a bit of an open book when it comes to guys—hiding her feelings isn't her forte. Lorelai wouldn't have it any other way.

"Wait, Tristan was the Emily set up?" she was confused, not thinking her own mother had that good of taste in men.

Rory shook her head, taking another gratifying sip of coffee.

"Okay, so, now Mommy's confused," Lorelai joked.

"Daniel was my set up. I talked to him, mmm, maybe ten minutes before I saw Tristan and we had this horrible fight," she explained.

"You and Tristan fought? Over what?"

Rory thought for a moment. She never really did understand what they were fighting over. She said hi, he got defensive and stormed out. He'd told her that he was stressed over work, but she didn't really believe him. He thrived on stress, especially when it came to work.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully.

"You don't know? Take me through it," she prodded.

Rory explained the conversation they'd had, to the best of her memory. She told her how Daniel had come up and how she fled the building after Tristan, finally figuring out where he'd gone. She let the whole night unfold for Lorelai, the awkward silences and his apologies that occurred at the DuGrey mansion, leading up to the car ride to the Dragonfly. She got to the point right before the kiss and paused.

"Rory?"

"Yeah?"

"Is that it?" she asked knowingly.

Rory gave a slight blush and shook her head. "He kissed me," she said softly.

"Oh," Lorelai understood the mass of confusion that seemed to be coursing through her daughter. All the angst of the last few weeks were the result of exactly what Lorelai had thought—these two had it bad. "Well, was it a good kiss?"

Rory looked at her mother and nodded. "You remember how you felt when Luke first kissed you?"

"Oh my. You're in trouble," Lorelai remembered. What Rory wasn't aware of was that that feeling just wouldn't go away. It hadn't with Luke, not after all these years. He still made her insides melt and she just had no control when it came to that man.

"Yeah."

"So, you two are together now?"

Rory paused again, frowned and took another swig of coffee. Her problem with all this, the problem from the start, was that it wasn't clear-cut. It wasn't like this kiss was the result of a great first date—or a date at all. It was a ride home from a friend after they fought about something that neither of them could talk about. Feeling the frustration rising up in her, she groaned and put the empty coffee cup back into its holder.

"I have no idea," she sighed.

In Hartford, Tristan slept in until about eight in the morning. He couldn't get back to sleep though he tried, so he made his way downstairs where his grandfather was having breakfast in the kitchen with his cook serving food while he read the financial papers. He did this every morning, all his adult life. He heard his only grandson making his way down the hall and smiled behind the paper so no one could see.

Tristan sat opposite his grandfather, and began placing food onto his plate wordlessly. He was never one to speak much in the morning, not before he got to work. He enjoyed the calm quiet of the mornings, taking time to get his thoughts in order and to plan the day a little. That was one of the reasons he liked staying with his grandfather. His mother liked to chat at all mealtimes, and the old man read his paper every morning without ever—

"So, you got in late last evening."

He hung his head in defeat, almost not believing the situation. He looked up, noticing the paper was still in its upright position in front of Janlan's face.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Surprising, since you left the museum in a sure-fire hurry," he commented lightly again.

"I had some business to attend to," he kept his explanations short, hoping his grandfather would take the message.

"This business included Rory Gilmore, am I right?" he finally lowered the paper to look at his astonished grandson.

"Wha—how did you know?"

"Richard Gilmore is one of my oldest friends, Tristan. She was in hysterics with him last night after you raced out of that party, wanting to know my address," he informed him. "Richard thought it only right to warn me that my house may well be occupied when I came home."

"Grandfather, I didn't know she'd follow me," he gave a half apology.

"Oh really? You had no inkling that after that argument you two were having that she would follow you to finish it up?" he asked knowingly.

"I didn't think she cared," he said looking into his orange juice.

"Well, then you're a damn fool," came his grandfather's response.

So much for moral support, he thought. His grandfather seemed to be getting quite a kick out of this.

"Well, I saw the embers and the mugs, one with lipstick on it, so am I correct in the assumption that you two made up?"

Janlan had completely abandoned the financial times at this point, all his attention on his squirming grandson. He'd never really seen Tristan like this, the boy had always been very much in control of his life in all aspects. It was a trait all DuGrey men shared, and it didn't always leave them in the best regards of the women in their lives.

"Can we not talk about this?" Tristan pleaded.

"I don't think so. You brought it here, so now we get to talk about it for as long as it pleases me," Janlan assured him. When Tristan gave him a pained look, he tried another tact. "Look, I'm older and presumably wiser. Try me."

Giving a long sigh, he gave in to his grandfather's demands. He sure wasn't coming up with any answers himself. He tried to give his grandfather the details of last night, from his horrible attitude to his finding Rory on the doorstep to the last moments in his car outside the inn. When he was finished, he looked straight into his grandfather's eyes and awaited the wisdom he was promised.

But Janlan said nothing, he just shook his head. He stood up and gathered his plate from the table, placing it in the sink and pouring himself a second cup of coffee.

"Well?" came Tristan's impatient question.

"I was right before. You are a damn fool," came his even-tempered response.

Tristan rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "Your guidance is astounding. Thank you."

"Tristan, tell me, what do you want from this young woman?" Janlan had walked over next to Tristan and put his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"I have no idea," came his response as he leaned forward, encasing his head in his hands.

Lorelai finally coaxed Rory to eat some breakfast at Luke's. She sat at the counter, watching Lorelai chat briefly with Luke, flirting as they always do, and thought about what her mother had said about how she knew with that first kiss that Luke was the real thing. She'd said that the whole time they were friends that she was scared of what might happen, and that it had felt safer to be in that in-between state of never knowing. Rory had always wondered how they never figured it out—it was obvious to everyone who saw them that they belonged together. She sighed and pushed some food around her plate as she wondered what someone who saw her and Tristan together thought.

Tristan finished packing his bag and left it in the hall before walking out to the gardens to find his grandfather to bid him goodbye. Janlan was walking amongst the rows of flowerbeds, empty and brown with dirt and dead sticks as it was every winter. He looked up to find Tristan approaching him and gave a smile.

"You're leaving?"

"I am. Thanks for letting me stay."

"Anytime. Perhaps next time you won't be alone?" Janlan winked at his grandson.

"Perhaps," Tristan sighed, unsure of what to even say to Rory, let alone to get a repeat performance of the last few seconds of their evening.

"Listen, I know your father and I aren't much as far as romantic role models go," he paused, choosing his words carefully, "but can I tell you what I've learned about women and love?"

Tristan was interested, his grandfather never even spoke about women since his grandmother had died five years prior. He cocked his head, showing his full attention as he stood facing the older man.

"When I first met your grandmother, she was working at a USO function. My platoon was shipping out to Korea two days later, and she was just the most breathtaking woman I'd ever seen. I asked her to dance, and she turned me down. Told me I could keep my false marriage proposals and my desire to get my last chance to propagate my family line to myself," he chuckled, remembering the evening as if she were standing in front of him saying it for the first time.

"So, what'd you do?" Tristan asked, enraptured in the story. He'd seen pictures of them around the time they got married, but never heard how they had met.

"I asked her to dance. Again. And again. Finally, she knocked me on my butt and told me to use my daddy's money to buy a clue."

"Wow. That sounds like Rory," Tristan smiled, remembering their encounters in high school.

"Anyhow, my buddies and I all left for the evening, and I realized I'd left my hat in the club. Our CO would have had my hide, so I jumped out of the car and ran back to the club, planning to hitch a ride back to meet the rest of my unit. When I got back, she was helping clean up and had my hat in her hands. I asked for my hat back, and she told me I could have it back if I danced with her. So I did, in the middle of this empty gymnasium, with no music playing. Afterwards, she gave me my hat and her address. By the time I got home from the war, we were engaged."

Tristan nodded, still not quite understanding the point of his grandfather's story.

"What I learned that night, and the rest of my married life with your grandmother was that she had everything I needed. Granted, that night it was just my hat," he smiled, "But if you feel strongly about a woman, you have to be persistent and let her lead you through it. Women are much better at these kinds of things, at least, the right ones are," he winked at his grandson.

"So you're encouraging me to bug Rory until she gives in?" Tristan laughed.

"I have a feeling you've done the bugging," he narrowed his eyes knowingly at Tristan. "What I'm suggesting is you go back for your hat."

AN: you guys rock so much! Seriously, I just looked at how many reviews I had for this story, and I'm blown away. The fact that you are all enjoying it so much, it really does drive me. That and I do enjoy writing these fan fics.


	13. The Blinking Machine and False Starts

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

For once, Rory was glad to have spent ten hours at work on a Monday. She volunteered to stay late and help get some extra editing done. It cleared her mind and brought a welcome break in the massive amounts of thinking she'd done on Sunday about the kiss and what that meant for her and Tristan. As she hung up her coat, she looked over at her spastically blinking answering machine—it looked pretty full. She knew most of those calls she wouldn't want to return, but hoped that just one of them might be from him. After all, despite all her trying to get her mind off of it all day—they had to talk about it, didn't they?

She gave the machine the evil eye as she passed it quickly, lest it reach out and make her listen. She moved into her bedroom to pull on jeans and her favorite warm sweater and get out of the stuffy business clothes she'd worn today. She pulled her hair back with one hand, securing it with a rubber band with her other as she looked back at the blinking machine, walking a little slower this time. She went into the kitchen, and grabbed a soda and made yet another lap past the source of her anxiety. Realizing she had nothing else pressing to do instead of checking the machine, she slowed to a stop in front of it, and pressed play.

"Rory, it's Mom. Just checking to see how _things_ are. You know, just the usual worrying mother routine. So call me about _things_." Beep!

"Smooth, Mom, smooth," Rory replied to the empty apartment, shaking her head at her mother's message.

"Rory, darling, you never called me yesterday! Are you alright dear? Well, I hate these machines. Call me." Beep!

Rory cringed, feeling badly for not calling her grandmother to explain. But what would she tell her?

"Me again. Not to bug you, just wondering how you are. So, call me. Love you, kid." Beep!

Rory waited for the next message, hoping it wasn't just Lorelai for the umpteenth time.

"Rory, this is Daniel. We met all too briefly at the Museum benefit in Hartford the other night. Your grandmother gave me your number; I hope it's all right that I called. I live in New York as well; I was hoping to get to see you sometime. Somewhere a little less stuffy preferably. Well, give me a call, if you'd like. 555-0930." Beep, Beep, Beep!

The triple beep signaled the end of her messages. She sighed as she sank down in her favorite armchair and pulled her knees up to her chest. She had to admit to herself that she was more than a little disappointed that he hadn't called. She knew rationally she should just call him, but instead she found herself dialing another number.

"Hello?"

"Daniel, it's Rory," she bit her lip as she waited for him to respond. They talked for a few moments, as she apologized for being rude the other night. He seemed every bit of the nice guy he'd been Saturday night, so when he asked if she wanted to meet now for a cup of coffee, she agreed.

Staring at the phone for the trillionth time today, he decided it was time to quit procrastinating. He knew it was fear that kept him from calling her, and that pissed him off. There was nothing to be afraid of. Fear wasn't an emotion he gave validity to. He reached for the phone before resting his hand on the receiver. Suddenly he had a much better idea. This wasn't a topic for a phone conversation—this was a face-to-face conversation. Gathering his coat and wallet, he left his apartment and set out for supplies.

Rory enjoyed the feeling of spending time with Daniel. He looked a lot more her type out of the formal gear that was required at the Hartford social scene. It turns out that his mother was of course in the DAR with Emily. He had been single for a few months now, and his mother had labeled him fair game with her friend's single daughters, nieces and granddaughters. He'd been expecting the worst, as she had been. They had a good laugh over their mutual relief over coffee. When they finished their first cup, he asked if she'd like a second, and her mind wandered.

This perfectly wonderful guy had no idea who she was. He didn't know that for her to cut off coffee at a single cup was genetically impossible. He didn't know that she liked PJ Harvey and The Bangles equally. He didn't know that she talked to her mother 147 times a week. He had no idea that she couldn't cook if it required doing more than boiling water.

Perhaps most importantly, it wasn't he who kissed her last Saturday. That kiss that she couldn't get out of her head, no matter what she did. Everything reminded her of it. Movies, music, books, everything she tried to use as distraction. This man was great—perfect on paper even. A relationship with Daniel would be clear-cut, and organized. Getting involved with Tristan would be confusing, hard and challenging.

She declined the second cup of coffee and he just smiled and walked her home.

He rounded Rory's block, his selection of DVD rentals in hand, trying not to think at all. Going over in his head what he wanted to say had been driving him crazy and he figured the words would come to him when the time came just fine. He heard his grandfather's voice in his head, and he smiled knowing tonight could be one of those potentially life changing evenings. One he would tell his own grandkids about.

He was whistling to himself, his unoccupied hand stuffed in his jacket pocket to keep it warm when he saw them. It was Rory and the guy from the museum, Daniel something or other. She unlocked the main door to her apartment building and he held it open as she walked inside, giving him a smile as she passed him. Tristan felt his stomach turn and harden as he stood staring at the door that swung shut behind them.

Had he been wrong? Had she not felt the same things he'd felt in the car the other night? He gripped the movies tighter and turned back down the block. Was he really supposed to call her later and listen to her regale him with the tale of her first good date in months? Or is this his sign from the universe saying to give up?

He turned back towards her apartment, in defiance of his last thought. He didn't give up. He'd never given up on anything that he felt so strongly about. And after all, she'd come after him on Saturday. Now it was his turn to come to her. He got near her door when he saw Daniel reemerge and walk out to the street, his hand outstretched for a cab. Tristan couldn't really read his face, and he took that for a good sign. The guy obviously wasn't overjoyed, and he'd only been there. . . four minutes according to Tristan's watch. He took another deep breath as Daniel's cab pulled into traffic and he rang her buzzer.

Daniel had just left, and she was almost sure it couldn't be him at the door again. He hadn't left anything behind, and she'd made her feelings perfectly clear. She pressed the intercom, to figure out the mystery.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

Two words sent shivers up and down her spine. Her stomach instantly felt like someone had let loose a cage of butterflies inside it, and she realized she was breathing like she had just ran up her stairs instead of taking the elevator.

"Hi," she managed, starting a conversation, forgetting that he was standing in the cold waiting to be let in.

"Can I come in?"

"Oh, yeah, come on up," she offered, pressing the door entry release. She moved to unlatch her front door, knowing he'd be up quickly and hesitated. She didn't want to open the door; that might seem too anticipatory. But she knew he was on his way up, so it would be silly to make him knock. She should appear busy, and call for him to come. . . she looked around for something that could seem to be keeping her occupied. Her unusually clean apartment was lacking in things to occupy her hands. Having run out of time signaled by the knock at the door, and she made her way to let him in.

Opening the door she found Tristan, with DVD rentals in his hand. She looked at him quizzically and neither of them moved. Her phone began ringing, but she didn't seem to hear it. Finally he spoke up.

"Are you going to answer that?"

She looked over her shoulder at her phone, knowing that with one more ring, the machine would pick up. Whoever it was couldn't be more important than this. She shook her head and stepped back, allowing him to come into the warmth of her apartment.

"So, I brought movies," he held up the stack for her to see.

"Oh, um, okay," she furrowed her brow and took the stack from him as she headed over to the entertainment center. Just as she was placing the stack down, she heard her caller start to leave a message. It was Lorelai, again, and she felt badly for not having called her back already.

"R-orrrrr-yyy! So, I'm dying here! Have you talked to Tristan or not?" came the voice from the box on the table. His head snapped towards it and she raced to pick up the phone before her mother could utter anymore of her embarrassing tirade. Squeezing her eyes shut so as not to look at the face Tristan was no doubt making, she began speaking to her mother in hushed tones.

"Yes, I'm here. No, I'm sorry. He's here, mother. Yes. Yes. No! Okay, phone time over. Goodnight," she got off the phone in five seconds, but it felt like five hours. She knew he was just standing there, staring at her, and that made her blush even more.

"So, that was?" his amused voice interrupted her mental breakdown.

"Uh, that was my mom," she confessed.

"How does your mom know my name?"

She opened her eyes, and she had been right. A rather self-satisfied grin was covering his face, and he had his arms crossed over his chest. She wanted to take him down a notch instantly—she couldn't believe she'd been nervous about seeing him.

"I was staying at her inn this weekend."

"Oh," he nodded, realizing that she'd told her mother what had happened between them. That they'd talked about him and the kiss that they'd shared. They had the sort of relationship that he had with his grandfather. He wondered what Lorelai's sage words had been. Probably to ignore him and forget the night ever happened.

She got nervous again at his simple comment, and the fact that he looked terrified suddenly. Well, terrified for Tristan, which was unsure for most people. She knew he liked to be in control, a thought that had fueled her fantasy life for the last week or so. She realized that he wasn't able to say what needed to be said now, so in a rush of bravery, she decided to help them both out.

"Tristan, we have to talk about this," said bluntly. His eyes lowered to meet hers and he nodded.

AN: Ah, another chapter. If I continued on from this point, I felt this chapter would get too weighed down—it was better to break it in two. A HUGE THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed, you guys are honestly the best. The support I've been getting for this story is overwhelming, and very motivating!


	14. Push Away and Pull Close

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

She watched as he nodded in agreement, and then continued to remain silent. He was still just standing there, arms crossed over his chest and his expression changed from apprehensive to unreadable. Something shifted in his eyes and she knew he was thinking about this but unwilling to share his thoughts. She lowered her chin; her eyes still up on his and raised an eyebrow.

"So?" she asked pointedly.

"So, talk," he encouraged her, not giving her anything resembling an emotion to go off of. She should have known better, Tristan had never been the open book kind of guy. He was all for probing her and making her private thoughts and feelings accessible for his benefit, but he never divulged anything he didn't have to about himself. As close as she felt to him, if hard pressed, there wasn't much she could tell anyone about him that was personal.

"Okay," she paused, giving him one more look before sitting down on her couch. "So, you kissed me," she informed him as if he hadn't been in the same car on Saturday night. He was acting coy, wanting her to spell this out for him.

"I did," he agreed. He knew she would humor him just so long, and from the look on her face currently, her tolerance for his games was low tonight.

"Tristan," she warned. She wasn't in the mood to joke around about this, not after all the drama that had been built up in her head since the kiss had occurred. Not after the exhausting talks with Lorelai about what this did and didn't mean. Especially not after Lorelai getting her all hepped up about the comparison of Luke and herself getting together and Tristan and Rory now possibly getting together. She was afraid that Lorelai was just supporting this based on this fantasy that Rory had built up in her head over the last few weeks. But mostly she was afraid that she was imagining all these feelings being mutual.

He sighed and sat down next to her on the couch. "I kissed you," he said with finality in his voice.

Both were looking at their laps, her playing with the ring on her right middle finger, and him too caught up in the fact that this was actually happening to look right at her. She was consumed still with the thought of the kiss, but Tristan had another image he couldn't quite shake from his brain.

"What was he doing here?" he asked suddenly, deciding if they were really going to talk about the state of things, it all had to be out on the table. As it is in business, so it should be in any real relationship. He liked to play with full knowledge of a situation.

"What?" she asked, now looking up into his waiting eyes, confused as to how this related to the kiss at all.

"That guy, the one from the benefit, he was just here," he reminded her.

"Oh. How did you know that?" she asked defensively, not liking his insinuation.

"Were you with him all weekend?"

He hated himself for even thinking it—and the look on her face gave him his answer immediately. He couldn't stop himself from asking; it was just the way the words fell from his mouth. While he did want to know how this guy factored in, he hadn't meant to say those words that had been floating into the forefront of his mind.

"What if I was? You never called," she came back, and if he'd been watching this exchange and not personally involved, he would have been quite proud of her for using just the right amount of scathing anger and shoving back the insane speculation.

"Rory," his tone implied that this wasn't the best time to plant seeds of doubt in his mind.

"He called me. He took me out for coffee," she offered those bits of information hastily and nothing more. She knew she didn't owe him anything, especially after the thoughts he'd obviously been having about her. She wrapped her arms around herself, a sure sign that her defenses were sky high.

"Coffee?" he asked, almost sounding ashamed of himself.

"Coffee."

He looked at her unwavering glare that she seemed to reserve for him—it made him want to crack and confess that all he'd really wanted to do since that night was kiss her again. He didn't want to be discussing Daniel at all. He knew that she had done nothing wrong. She was right—he hadn't called. He hadn't known what to say exactly, but he was here now. He needed to say something to make her see that she didn't need to waste her time anymore with these guys that it wasn't going to work out with, but she started talking again instead.

"I don't even know why I'm bothering to explain myself to you anyway. You may have kissed me in the car that night," she paused, gathering her courage a little and trying to push all the desire to kiss him again out of her system, "but obviously it meant nothing. Daniel is a really nice guy, and it was good to just go out and enjoy a good conversation over a cup of coffee with someone."

He heard her words again, as if they'd rushed past him, bounced off the wall and shattered against him. 'It meant nothing.' He looked at her, her face was set and determined, and he couldn't tell if she were bluffing.

"So, you like this guy?" he managed, his brow furrowed as he was trying to dissect the meaning of her last tirade.

She looked confused, and he thought maybe he was cracking her façade. They were both on edge right now, trying not to let the other in too much—if at all.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, willing herself to say yes, she did like Daniel. That if she hadn't been so confused by Tristan's unstable advances that she would have made future plans to go out with Daniel, gotten to know him and probably dated him for quite some time. She wanted to say that so badly, but looking at him, and the anticipation on his face—she just bit her lip.

This wasn't how this evening was supposed to go. He wasn't supposed to be sitting on her couch asking her how much she liked this guy. This guy that she barely knew and that didn't matter at all. He had nothing to do with this relationship that he and Rory had been building. This guy doesn't know her like he knows her.

He stood up, and walked over to her entertainment center. She watched him, still speechless, and wondered what he was doing. He picked up the DVD's he'd brought; she assumed so he could leave. But instead, he started reading them off to her.

"So, we have Indiscreet, Say Anything, Four Weddings and a Funeral, and of course," he paused for dramatic effect, "When Harry Met Sally. What'll it be?"

She stood, and shook her head. "What are you doing?"

He sighed, and set the movies down. "Look, forget Daniel," he said, his voice lowering as he stepped closer to her. He pulled her to him, grabbing her arms just above the elbows. She looked into his eyes, letting him nestle her close, so she could breathe him in.

"I've been thinking about this. Maybe you and I aren't the most obvious relationship—no one is setting us up together. But whatever this is, I think I like it," he confessed, looking into her eyes still, now very close to her. He could feel her shaking slightly under his touch. Her arms were at odd angles, sort of half folded between them, and now she let her hands rest against his chest. He could feel her relaxing against him.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"Tristan, why did you come over here?" she asked with the strongest voice she could find—which at this point was shaky and quiet, hoping at this point he'd be straight with her.

"I came over to spend time with you," he leaned his face down and his lips were right above hers.

She could practically feel his lips on hers again, and she wanted to talk about this like the normal, rational adults that they were but the desire to be kissed by him was too strong. She gave him a slight nod, and his lips were on hers at last. He let go of her arms, and allowed her to slide her arms up around his neck. He placed his hands on her hips, as her mouth opened at the insistence of his caressing tongue. He picked her up off the ground and held her to him. When he finally put her down lightly and they came up for air, she had a faint smile on her face that matched his.

"I lied before," came her soft voice from the vicinity of his chest. She'd leaned her forehead against his chest, now filled with relief from the physical contact.

"When?" he asked, pushing aside some of her hair with his nose, kissing the top of her head.

"When I said it meant nothing. This isn't nothing," she admitted, looking back into his eyes.

As if those were the words he'd been waiting for, and he reclaimed her lips, picking her up and spinning her around before walking them back over to the couch. The talking was over, for tonight anyway, there was no need for words now.

AN: Okay, yes, I know I was evil for leaving you hanging last chapter, and I would have had this up sooner, but I wanted to fix it up all nice and pretty like for you—the version I had last night wasn't up to snuff. I've been working insane hours, so this is truly as fast as I could write! I hope this was worth the wait.


	15. Together and Apart

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

She knew her alarm was going to go off at any moment, and she silently wished that time would stop and by some miracle she'd never have to leave this spot. She couldn't even look at the clock; she just tried to settle into her cozy spot on the bed. Her place currently being curled up on him. She could feel his chest rise and fall with each even breath, and the sound of his heartbeat was filled her left ear. She could feel his arms around her, strong and warm as if to secure her in place.

The unthinkable had happened the night before. Well, the unthinkable in Rory Gilmore's mind. She thought back to the events that had brought her to this very moment, lying next to Tristan DuGrey early this morning. It'd been five days since that fateful evening—the evening in which she and Tristan finally kissed again and confessed that there was something between them. He'd stayed until four am, watching the chick flicks that he'd brought over. Well, they'd watched them after she'd teased him mercilessly about the films he'd chosen to bring over. He claimed he'd simply tried to pick movies he thought she'd like. She told him that his feminine side was obviously trying to find an outlet and he must have more estrogen in his system than she had. Their banter went on and on, but it didn't stop the space between them from being nil. She stayed curled against him, her head on his chest, his lips resting intermittently on the crown of her head. When the early morning hours came and the last credits rolled, he pried himself out from under her, and they kissed one last time before parting in attempt to catch a nap before work.

This became a habit, every night after work; he'd show up at her house with some sort of offering, as they pretended they needed something to base their togetherness on. Tuesday night, he'd come loaded down with Chinese food—one of everything from her favorite neighborhood take-out place. They spread the smorgasbord out and watched a Road Rules marathon until the wee hours of the morning. It was harder to say goodnight on this second evening, as there was no definite end as the conclusion of the movies had been. One would be strong and insist it was time to get to sleep—the other would be weak and wear the other one down quickly, ending them up right back on the couch in a horizontal position, kissing and touching for another episode of the seemingly unending marathon.

Wednesday night was board games night. He'd brought every game he could get his hands on. They played Parcheesi, Connect Four, Boggle, Scrabble and Trouble. There was yelling, cries of joy, cries of protest, thumb wresting to decide a tie-score; which ended with Rory laying under Tristan, being tickled into submission. She shook her head vehemently, tears of laughter rolling down her face as he buried his face into her stomach and burrowed into her, making her laugh even harder. He lightened his pressure, and brought a hand up, pulling her soft t-shirt up with it. Tears still rolling from her eyes, she looked up and silenced herself as she watched him place butterfly kisses around her bellybutton. Needless to say, he didn't get out of her apartment before dawn.

Thursday, she'd worked late, not arriving home until ten o'clock. When she got to her door, she found a rose on her doorstep, with a note attached. She smiled softly as she pressed the flower to the tip of her nose before gingerly unfolding the handwritten note, obviously a hasty last minute measure. He'd written it on the back of what looked like a receipt of some sort, and scrawled the short message on the back.

_Brought you something. Maybe I'll see you around later._

Smiling, she entered her apartment and decided to soak away the day. She could literally feel the weight and grime on her from the mounds of paperwork, and all the negative energy form co-workers more stressed out and behind than she was. She took the rose, laid it on the edge of the bathtub and turned on the hot water. She added some bath salts and left the room, so she could slip out of her clothes and into her robe. When the tub was filled to her satisfaction, she dipped a toe in, easing her foot in slowly to the hot water. She took her time, and by the time she was resting on the bottom of the porcelain surface, she was completely content and almost intoxicated from the warm fragrance from the steam that was coming up from the surface of the water. Her stress was melting away, mixing into the water, and moving away from her.

Her phone rang and caused her to smile. She'd hoped for this, and brought the cordless phone into the bathroom, resting it next to the rose on the ledge of the bathtub.

"Hello?" she asked, the relaxation her body was feeling was evident in her easy-going tone of voice.

"Hey, what are you wearing?" he opened, hoping she was in the mood to play since they'd missed each other.

She smiled, loving the fact that she could be honest and drive him crazy at the same time.

"Nothing," she said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh, really? What a coincidence," came his lilted insinuation.

"Are you in the tub, too?" She tried to sound innocent, as if she weren't quite picking up on his meaning to drive him crazier.

"Not quite," she could hear his smirk, and blushed despite the fact that he couldn't see her.

"I got your rose," she said, picking it up in her other hand, twirling it around in the air over the water.

"Oh, yeah?" he couldn't help the smile that covered his face, despite the disappointment that he wasn't currently there with her.

"Yeah," she breathed, biting her lip to try to ease the unyielding smile that just seemed to be a permanent fixture on her face this past week.

"I was hoping to catch you," he told her, as if she hadn't already known that fact.

"Maybe tomorrow night. I'm kind of beat," she sighed into the phone.

"Right. Tomorrow then. Goodnight, Rory."

"Night, Tristan."

She hung up, still smiling from the longing in his voice. Longing that she had created in him. Not that she wasn't a little dismayed that they were taking this hiatus from their growing—whatever this is. 'The talk' as it's so lovingly referred to by Lorelai, had been successfully avoided past the fact that they want to spend more time together and that there is definitely something going on. Lorelai begged for details when Rory had called her at lunch on Tuesday. She said after raising her all those years and living through the brief but scarring Spice Girls craze in middle school, that she owed her full and descriptive details of the romantic happenings with her and Tristan. Finally giving in to what she assumed her mother wanted to hear, she told her mother that they'd made hot, passionate love in every room of her apartment. When Lorelai asked if she'd since sterilized the place, Rory hung up on her. Lorelai called back later and left a message on her voicemail about her being a spoilsport and that she expected to have juicy details for her the next time they talked.

Of course, they hadn't of yet had sex—though on this Saturday morning, she couldn't imagine any more perfect a scene. The unthinkable thing that had occurred was that Tristan had come over and stayed all night in her bed. They kissed, touched, and held each other—then they just fell asleep next to each other. It was innocent and wonderful, and she was finding that being with Tristan was nothing like she imagined—but more than she could have ever began to dream of.

Her thoughts whirring quickly through her brain reminded her of something that again put her recurring smile back on her face. It was Saturday. This means her alarm wasn't about to interrupt the lovely feeling of laying here in his arms; a feeling that was reinforced as they tightened around her as if he were sensing her even entertaining the thought of getting out of bed. Letting the memory of partial consciousness wash over her, she gave into the warmth of his body and sleep once again took her.

AN: Would have had this up sooner, but was a little blocked on where to go after the last chapter. Hope you enjoy, and as always, reviews more than welcome. Encouraged, even. :)


	16. Waking Up and the Danger of Ringing Phon...

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

He woke up to feel a strange weightlessness. When last he had semi-consciousness, Rory had been using him as a pillow, lying almost diagonally in the bed with most of her torso on his chest. He remembered thinking something about heaven before letting his eyes close and falling back into the haze of sleep. He heard water pounding against porcelain, and turned to face the half closed bathroom door. He watched as her outline moved to push open the shower curtain and step carefully into the shower. A smile crept over his face, before he yawned leisurely and stretched his body. The truth of his current location washed over him. He was lying in Rory Gilmore's bed. He woke up in Rory Gilmore's bed. If someone told him a month ago that this would happen, he would have called them crazy.

The night before was unlike all their other encounters. It wasn't a coincidence that they were together; there was no other pretense for them to be together, other than his calling and asking her out on a proper date. He'd called her up and actually asked her to go on a date with him. He'd sat at his desk behind his closed door while the entire office thought he was on an hour long conference call with clients upstate, working up the nerve to call this woman up and ask her out on their first official date. Though they'd seen each other almost every night this week, it had still been under the safety net of 'hanging out'. Nothing was really official, other than the fact that seeing her made him just want to see her more.

And so he pulled a few strings and got them into the Rainbow Room, and then they took a walk around Central Park, before going back to her house for dessert. All she had that might have qualified as dessert was coffee and some chocolate syrup, which was laughed off and forgotten as he cupped her face in his hands and leaned across the refrigerator door to kiss her. He couldn't ever remember a time when he'd ever been nervous on a date, or a date that he felt went too quickly. Usually he suffered through the dinner portion to get to the back to her place part. Followed by the slipping out as soon as she was asleep part. The most amazing aspect of his evening was the moment around 3am where she was drifting away into slumber and he moved to let her be comfortable in her own bed—and she reached out a lethargic hand on his chest to prevent him from moving. Then the slurred, drowsy words came flowing from her mouth, 'stay with me.' He was truly in heaven, or what his would be if it existed. He held her as she fell asleep and he had no desire to be anywhere but in her bed.

Now this beautiful creature was naked in the shower just feet from him. Had they had sex, he could join her, but they weren't moving as fast as he normally would. She wasn't the kind you fuck and run from. She's the kind you wait for the right moment for. Granted, he did hope the right moment would arrive quickly, but for now he was more than content. Instead he sat up and took the book off her nightstand and began to flip through it.

Her phone began to ring, and a smile spread over his face remembering the last time she failed to answer her phone in his presence. He still wanted to ask her exactly what she'd told Lorelai about him. He figured she couldn't hear the phone in the shower, and made his way over to answer it.

"Hello?"

Silence met him, though someone was definitely still on the line. There was no dial tone, and he could swear he heard someone breathing on the other end.

"Hello?" he tried again, more emphatically.

"Uh, perhaps I have the wrong number," came a voice on the other end.

"What number were you trying to reach?"

"555-9389," came the voice.

"That's the correct number. Can I help you?" Tristan asked, not understanding the trouble the caller seemed to be having.

"Uh, is Rory there?"

"She's in the shower. Can I take a message?" Tristan asked, starting to feel weird about this. He had no idea what had possessed him to answer her phone, but he was definitely sorry he had.

"Yeah, just tell her Daniel called. She has my number," he said quickly, sounding desperate to get off the line.

"Right," Tristan said before hanging up the line. He placed the phone on the receiver and went back to sit on the bed. Moments later, he heard the water turn off, and the towel being pulled off the rack. He tried to erase the last minute from his memory, but found it impossible. When she emerged in a blue silk robe, with a soft smile on her face he almost did.

Almost.

She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, and pulled away noticing the perplexed look on his face.

"Morning," she whispered as if it were still early in the morning, in those hours before it's really light out and therefore only proper to speak in hushed tones. As it was, they'd slept past ten o'clock. He knew he still had to go into the office at some point, but work had been the furthest thing from his mind last night.

"Morning," he said before pausing for a beat. "You just missed a call."

"You answered my phone?" she asked, as if the scenario had never occurred to her. She didn't look upset, more like amused.

"Yeah—evidently I confused Daniel. He thought he had the wrong number."

"Daniel?" she asked, unsure as to why Daniel would call her back. She'd run out on him after Tristan the first time they met and she talked about Tristan the whole way home from their coffee date.

"Daniel, the guy you went out with last weekend?"

His tone was that of an adult speaking to a child with no attention span. Which evidently is enough to piss her off, he saw immediately.

"I know who Daniel is, Tristan, thank you," she said defensively. "I just wondered why he would call," she explained.

"Call him and find out," Tristan suggested, sounding rather bitter about the idea altogether.

"Seriously?" she tested him.

"Do whatever you want, I need to go to work," he said, standing up and pulling his pants up his legs.

"Tristan," she sighed. How this happened was unfathomable to her. Just ten minutes ago she was lying in bed, watching him sleep. She noticed how much stubble he grew overnight, how it was just long enough to be rough to the gentle touch of the pads of her fingers. She ran her fingers down his jaw line, as if making sure he were really there and kissed his forehead before sliding out of bed and taking a quick shower. She never heard the phone ring, but evidently the chance call of a man who obviously didn't know that when a girl spoke about another guy she was uninterested was where it went wrong. She could still salvage this. His pants were on, and he was actively looking for his shirt. All was not lost.

"Tristan," she stepped in front of him, putting her hand on his bare forearm to get him out of his shirt finding daze.

"I need my shirt, do you see my shirt?" he asked, stepping away from her and looking under some of her garments on the back of her armchair.

"Tristan, stop," she requested, causing him to turn and look at her.

"What?" he asked tersely, looking down into her eyes.

"Why are we fighting?"

He looked at her, hating the fact that he couldn't really tell her more than the fact that Daniel had called. Perhaps he was making a bigger deal out of this than it needed to be—but he still didn't like other guys coming around Rory. Especially nice guys that she had enjoyed talking to. And all he could be is the jealous non-boyfriend who can't even find his damn shirt.

"We aren't fighting. I just. . . need to go to work," he said with a sigh.

"Okay," she said, moving over to the floor in front of her closet to retrieve his shirt and tossing it to him. "There."

He looked at her for a beat, deciding whether or not to say something. He slipped it on quickly over his head and muttered a quick gratitude. He looked around the room and grabbed his watch off her nightstand and moved over to where she was standing, just watching him get ready to leave. She was a dichotomy at this moment—looking at once so beautiful and so sad. Still in her silk bathrobe—just the right color to make her eyes stand out and right now her wide blue eyes were all he could see. In a moment of clarity, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. She was too fuddled with her thoughts to respond, she just continued to look at him. Or through him he wasn't sure which. He broke the contact and nodded.

With that, he was gone, leaving her standing in her bedroom as she heard her front door close quietly behind him.


	17. Personal Time and a Perfect Kiss

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

"Answer the phone. I know you have to be there, I already called your work, and they said you haven't been in all week."

Rory glared in the direction of the answering machine as it continued to talk to her. She pulled the covers up over her head and continued to pretend that her protected cave of an apartment wasn't being invaded by yet another well-meaning message.

"Rory, come on! I'll keep calling and calling—no wait. I've been doing that all week. If you don't come to the phone right now I'm coming over."

The threat sounded real. What she really didn't feel like was seeing anyone. She hadn't been out all week, and she was barely eating. She sounded plenty sick when she called into work every day to extend her personal time off. She threw the blankets off her in one foul swoop and padded her sock covered feet over to the phone.

"Fine," she grumbled into the phone.

"So, you're that desperate not to see your own mother?"

"I'm sick," she tried; knowing of all people she was unable to lie to, it was her mother that could decode sick from hiding.

"Sick, right. Should I call an ambulance or would you like to be one of those smells that the super has to investigate after you die?"

"I'm not dying," she sighed, switching the phone to her other ear and walked back over to her bed and flopped onto her back, now staring at the ceiling.

"Hmm, well, you haven't been into work in a week, and this is the first time you've answered your phone all week—what is wrong with you then?"

She sighed and paused a moment. While wallowing in bed all week, staring at the phone and hoping he'd call, her pain felt justified. Now, on the verge of saying it to her mother, she felt shallow and pitiful. This is the girl that she wasn't. Guys didn't send her life into a tailspin. But still, here she was saying it to her mother.

"Tristan and I fought."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me."

"That's what's going on? What did you fight about?"

"You think I'm stupid," she sighed, rolling over onto her side.

"No, honey, I don't. I know you guys were getting closer, right?"

"Daniel called. Grandma gave him my number, and he called only to have Tristan answer the phone."

"Oh, honey," came the supportive voice on the other end.

"Yeah, so I come out of the shower to find a very unreadable man--," she began but was quickly cut off.

"You slept with him?!" came her mother's shocked sounding voice jumping to conclusions from her daughter's words.

"No, I mean, yes, but not like that!" she groaned, remembering that it was her mother that she was trying to explain the situation to. Not that Lorelai would really chastise her for sleeping with Tristan—she was an adult and he wasn't exactly homely. But Lorelai knew that Rory wasn't the type to sleep with someone quickly, at least, not normally.

"Shh, okay, I believe you. So, you came out and he said?"

"He said Daniel called, then all of a sudden he just started to leave."

"Well, that's mature," she scoffed.

"Not helping," she warned.

"Well, I'm sorry, it's true—," Beep, "so all I can say is--," Beep, "you know?"

"Mom, the call waiting is going off, hang on," she instructed, forgetting she wasn't taking calls, and didn't remember until she had already switched over and answered.

"Hello?"

"Rory," his voice sounded like he'd swallowed gravel.

"Tristan," she said in surprise. All this time she'd hoped he'd be the one on the other end of the line, or on the other side of her door, but now that he was, she wasn't sure what to say. She felt the same as she did when he left on Saturday morning—speechless.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked.

"Uh, no, it's fine, just hang on a sec?"

"Sure," he agreed as she flipped back over to her mother.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Tristan," was all she had to say.

"Right. Call me later?"

"I will," she promised and switched back over. "Tristan?"

"I'm here," he let her know.

"Right. So, uh, how are you?" she said lamely, honestly having no frame of reference as to how to act. This was the weirdest situation she'd ever been in. She was having a non-fight with a non-boyfriend. The silence was making her skin crawl and she felt like she might just jump out of her skin if he didn't speak soon.

"I'm . . . I'm downstairs. Can I come up?" he blurted out, sounding as if he didn't mean to give his location away.

"Oh, uh, sure. Come on up," she said, looking around her apartment. Coffee cups in the sink, order-in food containers strewn about, lying where she'd last eaten from them. She hadn't been in the mood to pick up the apartment, let alone do much to herself. She had showered today, and she thanked whatever greater power knew he would be making his way over today. She was still in her pajamas, however, and pulled her winter robe on over the ensemble to cover it up a bit.

By the time he knocked on her door, she'd managed to gather the trash and throw it in its proper place before opening the door hesitantly. He was standing there, dressed for work. He even had his briefcase with him and his cell phone still out in his hand. He looked at her, but it was almost as if he were looking into her. She broke his gaze and opened the door further as if to invite him in. He came into her apartment and put his stuff down on the floor.

"Ror--," he began, sounding tired. He should sound tired, he hadn't had more than two hours of sleep a night since Saturday. He'd been at the office almost non-stop, immersing himself in work, telling his secretary to hold all calls and bar visitors. That didn't stop him from checking his cell phone every five minutes to see that she hadn't called. Not that he blamed her.

"What do you want, Tristan?" she asked, for once feeling a definite emotion towards this situation. It wasn't fair that he come into her life, making silent demands of her and getting frustrated that things weren't going exactly as he hoped. She'd done nothing than be with him and enjoy him. He had no right to be angry with her—and now she was angry.

He looked at her, and put a hand out to touch her, but she backed up. "No," she said, more defiantly. "I'm serious, tell me what you want from me."

He knew she was pissed—he'd expected it even. He'd created this mess; at every turn it had been his doing. He knew what he wanted—her. That was all. He let out a breath and sat down in her armchair. When he didn't say anything, he heard her make a noise that originated somewhere in her throat, that sounded like she was stifling a cry. He watched her cross her arms over her chest and shake her head.

"Tell me," she warned. He figured she'd show him the door any second now, and he had to say something. He wanted this to be organic and effortless, but he was making that impossible.

"I want to know what you want," he decided on his words and finally answered her.

"Don't talk in circles," she took a step closer to him, looking him dead in the eye. She was still angry, and he was going to make it worse, because that's his talent—to drive her crazy until she cracked. But when he took another step closer to her, her stomach gave a now familiar lurch. Something about his eyes so intent on hers made her nervous system fire.

"That's what I want. . . I want to know what you want from us," he said as calmly as he could. "I know I freaked out when Daniel called, but what am I supposed to think? Are you encouraging him to call?"

Closer now.

"No," she shook her head, and he noticed that her breath hitched as he was now in her face.

"So, he's just clueless?" he leaned down a bit, moving his eyes down from her eyes to her lips.

"He must be, all I talked about was you," her honesty causing the words to come out before she processed them.

"Is this a habit you have, talking about me on your dates? No wonder they don't go so well," he teased her, forgetting the moment was tense.

"You know, you really have no room to talk, here, you aren't exactly date of the year," she came back.

His hand went to her lips to quiet her. "I thank you for keeping tally of my not so stellar track record—what I need to know is am I wasting my time here?"

He was so close, she could feel he was holding his breath, and his eyes were filled with anticipation. Never in her wildest dreams would she have pegged him for being unsure in a romantic situation, but here he was. Unsure and waiting for her answer.

"No," she whispered, because their proximity made it seem absurd to speak at a normal tone.

"You mean that?" he asked, wanting to make sure his advances would be welcome. She'd never protested before, but now it seemed like there was this thin glass wall between them and once he broke it there would be no looking back.

She nodded, and on an upswing of her motion, he caught her lips with his. They both felt the shatter, a definite shift, and he put his hands around her terry cloth covered waist, and she put her hands on the fabric of his suit jacket. She ran her hands up his chest, moving towards his hair. He kissed her demandingly, and more than anything she wanted to give into his actions and move where this was inevitably headed as he backed them up towards the hallway.

"Tristan, wait," she said, pulling back while still very much entwined with him. She immediately regretted the loss of contact from his lips, but soon they made their way from her moving mouth to the available expanse of skin on her neck. She put her hand gently against his chest and pushed him away from her.

"What? I thought we were clear," he started moving back towards her.

"Clear? You asked if you were wasting your time with me," she pointed out.

"Exactly," he agreed, realizing that this might be a longer intermission than he'd originally thought.

"But what are we? Are we friends?"

"You just want to be friends?" he was taken aback. Not that they weren't friendly, but that was beside the point.

"No, I want," she began, but stopped to bite her lower lip.

"What?" he asked, ignoring her prior instructions and moving back to her. He was so close, he had felt her kissing him back but obviously she had something to say so he kept himself just out of reach to let her speak.

"I want to be with you," she paused, "But I want it to be real."

The kiss that he gave her could only be explained as bone melting. Just when she thought her whole body was experiencing the bliss, he was closer, his touch softer or firmer exactly where needed, leading her more towards him. She had no control—he was her support, he was her breath. He was always better without words, which he knew. His attempts to tell her would never be able to convey what he could show her. He needed her, and as the world slipped away she gave him what he needed so desperately.

AN: ah. Updates are getting a little more spread out and the bad news I have for you all is I'm going out of town—with (gasp!) no internet access for a few days! I'll be working on it, but won't be able to update until I get back.


	18. Forever and Always

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.

AN: This got a lot longer than I'd originally thought it would get. I felt that the last chapter was a nice ending, and the more I re-read it with no computer access this last week, the more I was convinced it felt tied up enough. But, I did want to add an epilogue, so here you go. Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed this story.

Springtime in New York took her breath away each year without fail. Here in this so-called concrete jungle, trees budded and flowers bloomed in vibrant shades of every color. The hibernating sun woke to cast ever-changing shadows from the buildings of every shape and design down the busy streets all day long. She smiled as she walked the last block to work and entered the bustling building.

Ever changing was an excellent phrase to describe her life over the last few months. Her series of articles on the uncovering of a major political scandal—and her dedication to get those who would talk to no one else to talk to her about said scandal had earned her a promotion, a bonus, and an office with a view of the entire city.

Her love life—much to the relief of her well meaning but pushy friends and family was also blooming. Tristan was very much a part of her life. He was the one with her and the bottle of expensive champagne her boss had bought for her the night of her big promotion. They had stayed up until dawn, locking themselves in her new posh office, testing out the strength of her new desk and the ergonomic qualities of her desk chair mercilessly. She shushed him with her lips to his around dawn when she swore she heard the janitor coming into the main office doors. Deciding she was bluffing, he'd upped the stakes and made sure she'd never look at the window seat the same again.

He was the one that raced to her apartment at two in the morning after Lorelai had called with news of her grandfather's unexpected death two months prior. The one that held her as she cried until she thought she would crack in half, clinging to the strong arms that held her up and rooted her in place.

Perhaps best of all, he was the man that had proposed the night before—hence the reason she was particularly cheerful to every single person she passed on this beautiful spring morning.

He hadn't intended on doing it at all. It wasn't as if he'd woken up that morning and thought to himself, "Hit the gym, find the Carter file, pick up some juice on the way home, and propose marriage." It was as he'd hoped for their relationship to be from the very beginning—organic and unstoppable. A force unto itself.

Over the last few months, the bond they had formed, constantly cushioning them from the world and its petty problems, swallowed the drama that marked their initial courtship. She seeped into his person in ways he'd never expected. He found himself using obscure words in otherwise casual conversations, taking his coffee black, and reaching for her next to him even on nights when they stayed at their respective apartments.

There hadn't been time to think about it. She lay in his arms, tracing a line that only she could see from his Adam's apple to his navel with a feather light touch that unwound him. He slid his lips across her glistening forehead. Once his blue eyes met hers in that instant, the words flowed naturally as if it had been his intention all along. She smiled softly, searching his eyes quickly before she nodded. He met her lips with his before a single tear could form in her joyful eyes. He took her face between his hands, savoring the taste of her and feeling as she slid her hands around his back to trace the muscles down his spine. These moments and sensations he burned into his memory to keep forever.

They cemented their promise of love with no ring—her only proof that he hadn't planned out every moment. His spontaneity, his ability to seize every moment was the yang to her yin. He made her life full in ways she'd never considered. He inserted uncertainty, passion, and heat into her safe and organized world. Only when their worlds collide did she truly understand the balance of life.

He slipped out of his office at lunch, unable to focus on his work at all. Smiling at the thought that she was probably overanalyzing her unplanned affirmation from the night before, he strolled through the warm spring breeze as he sought out to counterbalance the scrolls of pro/con lists she would have no doubt prepared by this evening.

Opening the door to her office, he heard her hasty goodbye to whoever had the bad luck to be on the other end of the line when he appeared in her line of vision, standing in the doorway of her office. He was unannounced, because her secretary harbored a secret crush on him, and he used this to his advantage today, smiling as he put a single finger to his lips on his way to her door. She watched wordlessly as he crossed the room and set the perfect blue box in the middle of her desk.

The end.


End file.
